


Mates

by Najanaja



Category: Mad Max 1979, Mad Max First Movie, Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Analingus, Drug Use, Exhibitionism, Het, M/M, Oral Sex, Power Bottom, Prostitution, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-04 03:19:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4123825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Najanaja/pseuds/Najanaja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Toecutter and Bubba Zanetti before the events of Mad Max 1.  Bubba is a good mate!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Mad Max or any characters from it. I make no money from these writings.

There was no cross-wind, and the road dust had been swept away by semi-wheels. It was a good day for riding hard. The bike, the burly Z1000, roared over the gray tarmac along the white line. Engine sounds and road-feel dominated the rider's mind. Then a horn blared behind him; the chase truck was bleating for his attention.

The rider stroked his palm forward on the throttle, and downshifted three times, to let the chase truck slide up on his right. With his other hand he signaled, and the gang slowed with him. As the arrow slipped to the left of his speedo, Toecutter heard the sound of his breath for the first time in four hours. Rolling casually in second gear, he edged close to the chase truck.

Toecutter leaned back on his seat, bringing his head above the windscreen. As the Z1000 coasted, he pulled off his goggles, and tucked them in his open lap. He tugged his chinstrap loose, and rolled the black helmet off his head. He gripped it between his muscular thighs. On the helmet's chin-guard, his idol of Kali stared up at him. She was supine in her seduction, smiling and dreamy, offering her embrace.

Toecutter grinned back. Gravel popped up from his tires to peck at his unshaven jaw and his teeth. His jacket's fur trim was slicked back over his broad shoulders. So was his mane of blond-striped brown hair. It was damp from the roots to the ends; a bracing chill swept over his scalp as the sweat dried. He felt like the wind was firmly and approvingly petting his whole body. 

 

“What news from Bubba,” he demanded, without looking in the truck cab. The man in the cage was not worth his eyes, but he should have something good for his ears.

“Bubba found a spotter. Not far. Fifty miles out from Still-town, he says.” The support man shouted in his old, thin voice.

Toecutter lifted Kali, turned her over, and slipped himself up inside her. He wiped his steel-framed goggles on his pants, and settled them over his narrowed eyes. The bikie waved to his men and rolled the throttle open, dipping his foot below the shifter and tugging firmly. On the speedo, the arrow pulsed from two to three digits and trembled ever higher. The air pressed and whistled to him, the bike growled and throbbed. The world shot toward Toecutter and he thrust into it. 

He was racing out from the center of the continent, the bikies' zone. He was riding hellbent toward the crust of old-order civilization on the coast. Closer and closer he must go to the Bronze and their chattal, the civilians in their pens and coops. These tame folk glorified their crumbly nests as towns and cities. But then, they were all sickly stock: their souls were given over to sour sins of complacency, and bitter sins of complicity. A free man couldn't help but feel low and mean and defiant as he thought of them. 

Ah, but the cities also stank of women, so the cities were the Bronze's honeypots. They had drawn in many free men- among them, Toecutter's good mate, the Night Rider. He'd taken up with a female there. She was a scrubber: her blood was half-chemical, and her flesh was barely-clothed and wobbling. She wouldn't hold a free man for long. But for now, the Night Rider was happily fucking her slippery cunt. As a consequence of his poor taste, the Night Rider was now missing: late for both the rendezvous and the hijacking. This needed fixing!

They were going to fetch him, Toecutter and all his mates: Bubba, Diabando, Starbuck, Cundalini, Mudguts, and Clunk. They rode out alone, severed from the Armalite forces on the Transcon One highway. If this was a Bronze trap, they wouldn't return, but many Bronze would bleed, and many more would burn. Sly and sinister, Bubba Zanetti had packed the chase truck full of hell: plastic explosives. And Bubba would deliver.

Here was Bubba now: flashing light from a mirror. He stood in the shadows of some large rocks, to the right of the highway. Toecutter's heart bounced like tires on a rough road. He signaled, slowed, and all his mates rolled together into the damp shade. Yes, all of them together, all but one. They must find the Night Rider soon. 

Bubba stood waiting, very still, just as Bubba generally was. His hooded eyes were even darker in the shade. He looked like a pale manikin in black leather. Bubba's thin body was slack, with the shoulders rolled forward. His hair was white and flat, like the molded texture on a doll-head. This was Bubba at his coldest, bored and coiled inside himself. Toecutter loved him, but he loved him better when Bubba was killing. 

Bubba often seemed disconnected, as if a mental clutch were disengaged. But when he moved his hand toward a gun, you could see his mind accelerating. It was lovely to watch him hitting his mental power-band. It was a glorious and contradictory thing. There would be a show of machine-smooth murder, but in those moments, Bubba looked animal, full of hot blood. With his thin lips parting, finally a touch of color would show in the pallid face: the pink tip of that snaky tongue. 

“Bubba!” Toecutter cried cheerfully as he braked, tugged the shifter up to neutral, and turned the key. He slipped his dirty boots from the foot pegs and knocked the kickstand down. Bubba's eyes, shallow and shiny as a gray glaze, stared without blinking at Toecutter. Then the pale man bowed his head and gazed downward. Toecutter folded his arms, and traced Bubba's gaze. 

At the slender man's feet, there was a lovely gift on the hard ground: a youth with his hands tied behind the small of his back, forcing the flat belly up, and the hips high, so that the legs naturally fell open. The shirt and boots were stripped off, and the feet were dirty and bruised from scrabbling against the rocks. Ribbons of red, very delicate, ran from the notched nipples. Bubba had even remembered not to mark the face! 

“Very nice, Bubba, you've outdone yourself.” Toecutter said. He unfastened his chin-strap and rubbed at his stubble, then slid the helmet off and set it on the gas tank. He swung his leg over the bike and walked toward the two figures. Toecutter heard the rest of the men dismount and prowl behind him: hissing, tongue-clicking, and sniggering. “Such a nice party, on such short notice!”

“He is just what I expected; and prepared for.”

“Of course, Bubba, of course, you were prepared. As for me, I intended for us to keep to ourselves. And I hoped that the Bronze would return the courtesy. But you were right, Bubba. It's just as you expected.”

“He is younger than the usual, though.”

“It's a Children's Crusade now. That's what the Bronze have done. You remember, Bubba, I told you about those sad events, from long ago.”

“In one of your books. History.”

“History comes again. That's what we see here. A child was promised he would be a hero, but was made into a slave. A Slave of the Bronze! His mind is in chains.” 

Toecutter crouched over the boy's hips and grabbed his smooth jaw. Two wide eyes stared at him, bright hazel, with long, black lashes. The boy was over the cusp of physical manhood. By his face, though, he was a pure, frightened child. Toecutter slipped a hand under the slim neck, and heaved the torso up. Drawing his belt knife, he cut the rope on the boy's wrists, and shoved him back down.

“They armed him.” Bubba pointed to the spotter's things. Most were ratty: the dirt bike, the worn boots, the faded shirt and jacket. However, the shotgun was clean and in good order. It was not the boy's property. It glared of Bronze. Bubba snapped, “Drongo Boy, tell him what you were hunting.”

Toecutter frowned. “Rabbits? Cats? No, something bigger. Something mean. Bikies, was that it? What were you going to do after you shot a couple of us? Would you have run then? On that little bike?”

The boy was panting rapidly. “I was only suppose to call back, that's all. They gave me a radio to use. I didn't want the gun. They said... If I couldn't get away... While they were coming... Just to hold... just to...”

“Hold us off?” Toecutter put on a look of sorrow, and dropped his muscular weight onto the boy's hips. “It doesn't seem to have worked.”

He looked over his shoulder. “How about you mates? Cundalini, Mudguts- can you barely breath from terror?”

Cundalini stroked his mustache and smirked. Mudguts half-crouched next to him and whistled at the boy. But the boy only stared at Toecutter and began to shake. 

“He was easy.” Bubba remarked coldly. “He heard me, but never thought to radio in. He waited to see me first, but he couldn't. I rolled up slow, among the rocks, and watched him. Drongo Boy thought I was just a bushie out fossicking for water. He kept his eyes on the road.”

“What did he tell you?” Toecutter let go of the fine jaw, and grazed his finger-tips down the chest, lean and firm, and rough near the nipples with dry blood and soft hair. The boy whimpered, and Toecutter made soothing sounds, “Ahhh, now, shh, boy.”

“The Bronze told him to watch for bikies. They have the Night Rider. His scrubber has dobbed him in for assault. And they've connected him to you. They told the boy some tales about you. Described your work.”

The boy gasped, “Don't hurt me. I'm not Bronze. I'm nobody. Don't cut.. don't.”

“That scrubber...” Toecutter hissed and widened his eyes. The boy tensed in fear. Toecutter responded by dragging his crotch slowly forward, pulling his hips back, and grinding again. He felt his cock pulse in his trousers. He looked down absently and stroked his hard dick, then began to undo his zipper. “We'll find her.” Toecutter murmured.

“She's in custody too.”

“Then, we'll find her people: her parents, her children. She'll grow forgetful. Forgiving.” Toecutter paused to lock eyes with the captive. “We all need forgiveness, don't we, boy? Do you know how to ask for it?”

The boy shivered and nodded. Toecutter eased back and stood up, and the boy knelt. He was quick to open his soft lips and wrap them over the curved and thick cock that the bikie presented. The boy was very capable, and Toecutter moaned theatrically, laughed, and rested his hands on the soft hair. 

The blowjob was a sloppy suck, from a hot, dripping mouth. Toecutter's balls swung against the boy's chin again and again. Saliva shone on the pink lips, and hung on the cheeks, slipping down as the boy worked. He grunted and went long minutes before he took a breath. It seemed that he hoped to end things quickly. The trouble was, he had a lesson to learn, and that would take time.

Toecutter said, “You've been out here in the bush for a long time, hmm? Making do with the blokes. Taking turns. And thinking of that one sheila, a sweet one you saw in town. Well, not now, boy. You'll think only of me now.”

Bubba dropped next to the boy and began to whisper instructions. Toecutter gave a gasp, and lifted his hands to stroke his hair back. The boy began to twist his face on the hard cock, sucking it back to his throat, swallowing. Bubba pressed a hand against the boy's back. He snapped orders urgently, and the boy struggled to obey. His tongue squirmed under Toecutter's cock.

There was a wrestling sound to the left. Toecutter glanced over, and saw Cundalini and Mudguts grinding together. Each was pulling at the other's clothes, in such a hasty manner that they had trouble with the buttons and zippers. Diabando had his uncut cock out and was stroking. Starbuck was sitting on his bike, a fanny magazine in hand. Clunk was looking over his shoulder. 

Those two men were stuck on sheilas; they'd probably turn the boy over, and lay the open centerfold on his back. Sweat would soften the paper over the hot skin. It would seem as if the photo was part of that flesh, quivering before the bikies' eyes. 

Clunk would have the last ride, when the boy was sloppy and wet, his arsehole as loose as a fanny. That thought made Toecutter's cock jump. He loved watching the final fuck, the boy beaten down, rocking with the thrusts, eyes shut. And that was many, lovely hours away.

Bubba palmed the back of the boy’s head, and began to push, with that rhythm Toecutter needed, that rhythm Bubba knew. Eventually Toecutter plowed in and down. He felt the muscles try to force him out, and the vibes of the protesting grunts. He saw the tears running and the eyes imploring. Toecutter shouted and he cummed hard. He was sure his cock was shooting massively into this hot, wet, punk-mouth. It was, indeed, quite a load that spilled as the Toecutter pulled out to the cheers and whistles of his mates.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How things began, and where they went from there. Young Bubba wants to be a bit more than mates. Actually, a lot more. Young Toecutter rolls with that. They decide to level up in other ways, too.

Toecutter remembers many dark and cold nights, and how the body seizes in the chill. A person deals with those nights as best as he can. A small boy will curl up in his dirty bed, and will hold his fingers close to his mouth for the thin heat. But a man will roar fast through the icy air, and when his hands chill, he'll pass them close to the searing engine of his bike. On one of those dark rides, on one of those cold nights, Toecutter, Bubba, and the Night Rider came together. By the morning they had decided never to part.

Before the Night Rider, there were two partners: the brutal Toecutter and the fearsome Bubba Zanetti. Toecutter was a rough young man, and Bubba was even younger, but the boy had a taste for cold violence that was fully mature. While Toecutter tortured and extorted, Bubba performed executions and engineered traps. 

They had a bush shack where they met before jobs. In time, it became a set-camp with a stock of water, fuel, food, and weapons. There Toecutter oiled and sharpened his cleavers, knives, and knuckle-rakes. For his part, Bubba maintained his Mauser C96, and a hard-won ammunition cache. He also worked on maps of the convoy routes, wild-cat sites, mining camps, and gang territories. When he could find printed maps, he revised them. More commonly, he drew his own, using a set of vernier calipers to set the scale. 

The bond of two young, hungry men is an isolating force. They began to pass the days together in the long lulls of a bush-runner's downtime. Alone at the set-camp, they discussed targets and planned the jobs. Bubba had logistical sense, while Toecutter had the drive, the decisiveness. It was a good partnership, and they believed it would make them men of influence. They discovered brute strength in their union, firm confidence, and then intimacy. 

They began with philosophies and histories. On Bubba's end, there was as much incoherence as sense. It was not hard to isolate the key to the boy's brooding sulks: Zanetti was very confused over his medical discharge. "An anxiety, they told me, but I made every shot I picked. I had plenty of margin, too." 

It was a classic of civilian casualties: a band of stone-throwing boys shot one by one. When the first boy dropped with a red hole for a face, they all stood staring, and the second died there with his chest gaping. Then it was a running game. The boys stumbled in and out of cover; they were searching for people they trusted to save them. The last one fell at the door of his house. Bubba was sure he never felt a moment of anxiety. Still, he understood that he'd misapplied himself. "I'm not what they made me to be. I don't work alone. I don't work. You work me."

Zanetti liked to follow; he insisted on it. Toecutter loved that too well. He lost any reserve and pressed for whatever he wanted. They were alone in the bush for long hours of night and day. Women were hard to recall, and Bubba was here and handsome, though aloof. Toecutter wanted attention. He wanted to show himself. He liked Bubba to watch with those cool eyes. He liked to think that Zanetti was both aroused and wary. Unconsenting but responsive. In a sense, helpless. An animal in a usefully human shape. 

At night, Toecutter lay stroking his hard cock, performing on one side of the fire. His face, and the pleasure on it, glowed in the low, red light. Bubba sat behind the flames and stared. From time to time, he blinked or swallowed. But he stayed very still, watching as Toecutter came into the embers and ashes. Then Bubba walked into the darkness and would be gone for some time. 

Bubba was the one who changed the pattern. The pale man stood up one night, before his mate had finished. He walked around the fire-ring and stopped at Toecutter's swag. As the bigger man paused, Bubba lay down with him. He brought out a small bottle and oiled his hand, and then he gripped Toecutter's hard cock. He worked the rod until it shone crimson, and wept, and twitched. He tormented it until Toecutter groaned Bubba's name and flexed his hips and swore. 

When Toecutter was too hot for second thoughts, Bubba removed his pants and swung a leg over. With an urgent hand, Bubba soon guided his mate's cock into himself. Toecutter was ridden until he had a climax and a revelation: Bubba had been practicing and preparing, and was always intent on this outcome. 

It was strange to look into the boy's cool eyes while pumping cum into his hot body, as sweat steamed on his chest, and rolled down the hard, white thighs. Something inside Bubba's coldness was still warm. Not a heart, but a powerful engine.

When Bubba finally trembled and pumped, he looked shocked and frightened. He tried to catch his own seed in his hand, but Toecutter was thrilled to take it on his chest and his face. He smiled and licked his lips and Bubba collapsed forward then, and Toecutter felt a touch from the pale mouth on his neck.

It opened Toecutter's eyes. He hoped never to close them. He'd found his power as a leader, by meeting the needs of his follower. It was that simple to harness a man. From then on, Toecutter thought of Bubba as his best possession. He drew him out in conversation, and used his ideas whenever he judged them promising. 

Bubba, in response, worked to deliver the best. The trust between the men was full-throttle. So when Bubba suggested they hire the Night Rider, Toecutter took up the proposal and kick-started it with a hard push: they must get the Night Rider! He was a legend, the right man for the work. Toecutter would have no other.

They prepped their ratty Kawasaki Mach III's, and they set out on a run to the Night Rider's hide-away. It took a week, because Bubba's main fuse blew on the second day. They had to tear deep into the harness to find the bare wire. As they worked they were on edge, hearing the engines of other bush-rangers. 

The bike stank of burnt metal and plastic; the regulator was a ruin. Toecutter raced for a replacement from the parts stash. He feared, all the while, that Bubba was dead and naked in the brush: his bike and body stripped. Toecutter was distressed by the image for days, though Bubba kept his life, his belongings, and his cold composure. 

When the mates rolled up to the Night Rider's signal bell, they stopped and stared at it for a long while. They were only a half-mile from the homestead of a famed runner of any and all contraband.

“This is a threshold moment, Bubba.” Toecutter put his knuckles to his mouth and bowed his head. “When he accepts us, all men will respect us. And running with the Night Rider, we will make ourselves legends like him.”

“Ring the bell.” Bubba said. “You will convince him.”

Toecutter hoped his tongue was as silver as his mate thought. Recent days had been harrowing, and he felt tarnished by all the close calls. Their last job was a spark in dry grass, and their life since then was a race ahead of fire. They were holding contraband that was more dangerous than any, and they had no way to move it. They had no hope, beside the Night Rider. 

Toecutter rang the bell loudly, and watched as the landscape responded. Crows cawed, and a gaunt, mangy kangaroo sprang from a dry creek and bounded away. Then it was silent. And still it was silent. Finally, they heard a bell ringing from the distant homestead. The Night Rider was ready for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm not following the "Bubba was MFP gone rogue" scenario. There's a lot to be said in favor of it; but I decided to go a different way. I wanted Toecutter and Bubba together young, and I wanted them to come to the Night Rider (and into the gang) as a matched set, so to speak!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The daily life of Nomad Trash. Also, Bubba pushes back against Toecutter.

Toecutter came awake under the foil blanket, a silvery warmth, crackling softly as a fire. He flexed and sighed. Then he frowned. Beside him, the Drongo Boy was rasping, coughing, and filthy. Late in the night, after lacing his rollie too well with crank, Toecutter had wanted to wrestle. He'd seized and pinned the boy, and gave him pain to make him fight. When he'd tired of the contest, he'd made a final use of the boy as a camping-pad. Now, the boy was fouling his morning. Toecutter loved mornings. They were his only solitude; they were contentment. 

Toecutter tugged the silver cloth down, under his chin, and inhaled the cool air. He smelled charred crust and hot dough, and the sweet steam of quandongs boiled in golden syrup. The bikies were crouching about, dark figures with hands tearing at hot damper. He watched them passing the syrup pot. They were all in good order, with Bubba standing over them.

Zanneti was bare-chested, wiping his skin with a wet rag. The water must be very hot: there was a flush over his pecs, and his nipples were pink. He ran the cloth down to the black oilskin of his riding pants, then slung the rag over his shoulder. He began to massage the back of his neck, and finally, his scalp. When he was done, he dropped the rag into a pot and turned silently to face the Toecutter. 

“Bubba,” Toecutter pointed to the food, and accepted his portion on a tin dish. He sat up with the blanket over his shoulders, pulling it off his bed-mate. The naked body was shivering and paler than Zanetti. After the bikie ate, he licked the plate and clapped the crumbs off his hands. The Drongo Boy jerked, but stilled himself, and his performance of sleep-- or death?--continued. 

Toecutter smiled and stood up, dropping the blanket. He'd slept in most of his gear. With his cock hanging out, he walked to the fire and the warm pot of water there. Following his wash-up, he tucked himself away. Bubba handed him a twig, the tip peeled and crushed to rough fibers. Toecutter rubbed the brush idly over his teeth and spat into the fire. 

Cundalini began the morning session of yoga. The thin man led them in the usual kriya, but on this morning, it was exceptional. As Toecutter flexed his body, every asana brought a bright assurance, burning him clean. He saw he had no concerns. The Nightrider would return. An assault charge was nothing; a woman's bruise was a Rorschach test. No judgment could be made of it. 

Toecutter recalled the woman's thin, fox-nosed face. He visualized her breath, flowing out, and his hand seizing it, so that her mouth hung empty, and her pupils swelled black. He would see her surrender. Then he would return the breath to her, and she would exhale words of exoneration. Soon, the Nightrider would be free. 

He rose and whistled. The bikies leaped up, grinning with aggression. Toecutter loved them. They were the black firestorms that burnt out the last sheep stations. They were the dark, salty winds twisting through the coastal cities. These men, his brothers: they were paving new, Glory Roads every day.

“We're riding-- Bubba, Diabando, and I. We're riding to the woman's home in Sun City. She is like Delilah. She stole our leader's strength and gave him to our enemies. They want to blind and imprison us all. But we still have our vision, and we see the way-- the way to free the Night Rider!”

Zanetti was standing with him; he would say the rest. 

“Bubba.” Toecutter cued him.

Zanneti stepped around him and surveyed the Zed Runners. “Wait for us in Bedlam, at the safe-house. Have spike-strips ready, at marker 50 outside Sun City. Man them in shifts and keep the frequency clear.”

Toecutter walked to his swag, and Bubba followed. Zannetti shook out the foil blanket. He folded it into a crisp rectangle. Toecutter gripped the edge of his ground tarp, and heaved up, rolling the Drongo Boy. 

“Good morning,” he stated. “We'll be leaving now. You understand; I can't carry on with you. But you'll never forget our time together.”

Toecutter looked at the boy. His face wasn't so smooth now. It was lumpy as a round of damper dough, sagging over coals, and crusty with blood and cum. The bikie studied the lips, swollen and black-striped. He saw the red eye-lids, and the purple lump on the temple. Toecutter was suddenly tender. He had worn these colors often, when he was small. It was a good place to start, a good beginning-- he wished the boy well. 

“Bubba,” he said gravely, “Put his clothes on him and leave him water.” 

He went to his black Zed, and touched the cold metal, glazing it with fog. Every man was doing his ride checks, crouching and climbing on the bikes: twisting all the bolts, eying all the rubber, weighting the suspensions, gripping the brakes. The in-line fours began their gas-hungry snarling, one by one. Toecutter brought his right hand up, made a whipping motion, and the Zed Runners roared out. 

Diabando had finished packing the dishes, and was pissing out the coals. Toecutter opened his kit and tested the edge of a heavy cleaver. He hooked it to the lining of his jacket, and hung some smaller pieces, too: razored and spiked knuckles, and a long, coarse rasp. These were toys for rough-play, richer than the tender struggles with the Drongo Boy. The greasy metal left a sordid gloss on Toecutter's fingers, and a tingling crept over him, and brought his eyes toward Bubba.

Zanneti stood at his silver-and-blue bike, dressing. The pale man tugged a black shirt onto his torso, smoothing the fabric into a body-gripping fit. He pulled the scoop-neck lower, and looped his red-and-white beads over his collarbones. He strapped on the back holster that held his Mauser, and slung the double shoulder rig: model 28 on the right, speed loaders on the left. Finally, Zannetti shrugged into his black jacket, and flexed several times until the hang suited him.

“Bubba,” Toecutter said softly, as Bubba lashed the foil blanket to his bike,“You weren't cold last night?”

“I don't feel cold. Not like you.” 

“Ahhh.” Toecutter watched Zanneti's eyes, fixed on his work. “Never cold, and never hot for the group root. How long since your last good root, Bubba?”

Zanneti was looking into his compact mirror. He slid the point of a black pencil slowly along his eyes. “You.”

Toecutter hissed for the man's full attention. Bubba looked over one shoulder at him, showing his murder-face for a moment: fierce, and hard. The pale man turned, and moved close to Toecutter. He lifted a finger, coated in dark eye-shadow, and brought it slowly to his own face. He swept the powder above his bright eyes, and they burned from a new depth. Then he stroked the same shadow over Toecutter's left brow. 

“Bubba,” Toecutter smiled. “That was a month ago. In some respects, you... You're too focused.”

Bubba licked his finger, and wiped it on his shirt. He slid it through the silver eyeshadow and brushed it over the shaven skin of Toecutter's right brow. 

Toecutter leaned forward and rested his fingers on Bubba's jaw. “When the Night Rider returns, we can rove for a while. We'll go to the beach. You like watching the ocean. I know, Bubba, I know it. You want to be alone. Well, I do, too.”

He turned his lips down, and Bubba kissed him. Zanneti's thin mouth was wind-burnt. His tongue tasted of tea tree. He hesitated in the kiss and broke slowly away. 

“Bubba,” said Toecutter, “Those spike strips. You think they'll try to bail us up in the house, and we'll have to blow through.”

“Give me a day to clear the window-spiders. They'll be watching.”

“You haven't a day. I'll give you six hours.” 

Bubba glowered, looking out into the bush. Toecutter held up his hands and sighed.

“It's Johnny. He probably found the Night Rider's stash the first day, and spent the second day smoking, snorting, and shooting it all. The next day, he got into the lockbox, and took out enough cash to buy big. Very big.” Toecutter shook his head. “If we're lucky, he went to one or two dealers, and none of the heavies. But by now, at least one man must be thinking of robbing and killing Johnny the Boy.” 

“That's how a junkie goes. All we need from that house are pics of the scrubber's rellies. Let the rest go to ruin. We've seen scags burn up before.”

“Not the Nightrider's brother, Bubba. With Zano in the Halls, Johnny's ours to keep.”

Bubba stared implacably, his mouth firm. 

“Bubba.” Toecutter chuckled. “I'll give you ten hours then. One of them right here, right now. You have to clear your head.”

Zanetti shifted his eyes to his mate. He nodded silently. He went to his Z1000 and stood behind it, gripping the leather seat. Toecutter followed and slid his hands over the slick, black hips. He looked over at Diabando, who was watching them now through his coarse, blond bangs.

“Diabando. Look over the Drongo Boy's bike. Strip it down well.” 

Diabando shrugged and moved toward the bike, though he had parted it out last night. As he turned, Bubba unbuttoned his pants, and helped Toecutter drag them down to his mid thighs. Zanetti rubbed lube over his hard, pink cock. He bent forward and Toecutter knelt. Bubba grunted as his mate cupped his arse and pulled the cheeks open. 

Toecutter found Bubba prepared: cleaned, lubed, and plugged. He worked the plug out, giving it a few rough bobs, hearing more soft grunts, and then a pent-up silence as he licked gently. These days, Zanetti's body was both old and new to him. He missed the fresh and pink pucker that Bubba had as a younger man. The small knot of muscles was darker now. He pressed his lips over it, sucking softly, swirling his tongue, pressing it into the firm hole. 

When the pale buttocks began to flex, he stood and took out his leaking cock. He rubbed its head along the divide of Bubba's arse. He thrust in with a slow roll of his hips, then stood and waited. 

Zanetti began to move, rocking back, and drawing away. In his arms and his back, the muscles were hardening. His ribs spread as he breathed deeper. He braced himself on one hand, and began to firmly pull his cock with the other. The slapping sound was rude and brutish, and Toecutter loved it.

Toecutter took the lean hips in his hands, intent on speeding the rhythm. But he'd forgotten how clever Bubba was. Toecutter could not thrust too hard; the bike was rocking dangerously close to coming off the stand. All he could do was pull at the white skin, his fingers slipping. Bubba growled softly and resisted. He was sliding now with an insolent wag of his hips. It was very slow for Toecutter, while Bubba was stroking himself fast.

“Damn you.” He bit his lip and tugged harder at his mate's body. Bubba gave a sigh and gave in. He was ready to finish. He pulled Toecutter's right hand around to his hot cock. Then he bent and hugged the black leather of the bike seat. His face rested on the polished gas tank. Panting, he fogged the deep blue with pale clouds. His position was low now, his back curving, his arse high, and Toecutter leaned over him. He could pump rapidly now; the force pushed Bubba down onto the bike, rather than forward into it. When Zanetti opened his mouth to moan, his teeth clicked on the metal as Toecutter pounded his arse. 

The men gave sharp gasps and hisses. Bubba growled for more. Steam rushed over Toecutter's skin. He finally felt a greater, emptying heat in his tight nuts. Bubba was coming too; he slicked Toecutter's hand and the bike leather with a long jet of hot cum. 

Toecutter backed away and sat on his bike, tearing off his jacket, and then his shirt. He dried his face with the shirt and put it back on. It smelled of Bubba's cum now. He licked the last smears off his palm, grabbed his canteen, and swigged the stale water through his dry mouth. Then he brought it to Bubba. He made him drink some, before he let him wet a cloth for his body and the bike leather.

“There,” he said harshly, with pride, “I know what you need... Easy. I know what I'm doing.”

Bubba stood, calm and unmoved. He fingered the cum out of his arse, while Toecutter watched him. Zanetti wiped, tossed the rag away, and fastened his pants. Then he spoke.

“I'm not going to Glory for Johnny the Boy. I'm not risking us for him.” 

“For the Nightrider, Bubba.”

Zanneti shook his head. He looked firmly at Toecutter. “No. Not for him. I'm not doing it for him. I'm doing it for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is the chapter the author hates. Nothing happened really, the plot was left cold, and I hate doing that. It's so self-absorbed. I just had a weird fascination with little things from the movie. The blanket Bubba carries, which only Toecutter ever uses. The yoga poses that the bikers perform in various scenes. Toecutter lacing his rollie in the cut scene with the Lair. Just before things get bad for the Lair... I wanted to work out, for myself, how all these things fit into the Zed Runners' road life. Ultimately, not a useful chapter! I may edit this chapter out completely, so enjoy (if possible) while its up. The only thing I thought I did well was the bike fetish sex. Bubba's got to be a power bottom when he gets under. 
> 
> I wonder if I'm making Bubba talk too much? But I need two voices to advance some information. Maybe it works. Maybe Bubba got quieter when Johnny the Boy showed up... I suspect he was a little less tense before that.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An expert gives the young Toecutter and Bubba his fair appraisal of their value. Toecutter determines to make more of himself, and have something nice to call his own.

The Kawasaki Mach III was a fool-killer, a willful and feral machine. On good tarmac, the bike was a beast with a slippery hide. It slammed like a cleaver over a rough road. Taking a curve fast, and rolling on the throttle, was tossing dice down the highway. If you rolled snake-eyes, the acceleration would lapse, then surge, followed by a howling mono as the front wheel bucked into the air. That never failed to hoist Toecutter's balls, and switch his heart out for a bubble of cold air. 

Bubba never matched his mate's daring; he fell back on the curves, while Toecutter leaned hard and took them in a skidding dash. He had to ride ferociously. He was leading, and they were riding on the deadliest of Glory Roads: the Transcon One. 

The super-highway was a gasoline artery, leaking a taste of life, quickening the forbidden zones. She was the siren of the inner continent; a slut with scarred skin. The Transcon was scorched and gouged, alarming and alluring, a naked challenge that brought the Glory Roaders roving to the kill.

Men in muscle-cars and super-bikes chased a hundred forms of Glory on the Transcon One. The sport-killers hunted the truckies and guardies, and they burned the wealth in the road. Wreck-freaks made a name by competing in melees, and jousting in the twisties. Bush-rangers were butchers of the lost lambs, and the Armalite gangs were beating the Bronze into broken pig-iron. 

Toecutter crept among the clans, casting a hungry eye at them, and at any chance, skinning them for the salvage. He'd chosen a slick niche for himself and Zannetti. The Mach IIIs were ambush machines, covering a quarter mile in twelve seconds. They drove the game to the trap-sites: off embankments, over spikes, and into barricades. 

Bubba selected the fit survivors for the work gangs, loading the loot truck. Toecutter took the dying, salvaging their knowledge by ruining their flesh. When they had used up every bit of the prey, they rolled Bubba's bike into the truck, and returned to the set camp. It was the hole in which they crouched, as they sniffed for more game.

In the forbidden zones, men had to rove and hide to survive. Nomad gangs flowed through the bush roads, circulating to all the necrotic towns, bartering and whoring, then moving out. The wicked did not want to rest; there was blood and loot down the road. They were also dogged by the Main Force Patrol. If a man paused to breath deeply, the Bronze would seize the air from his lungs. 

Only the warlords of the Armalites could hold a territory. The Night Rider had a large compound, housing the boss man and his Acolytes. They lived in a fire zone: the land was cauterized; all the life was dying hard. No one would mistake it for safe place to sojourn. To make the meet, Toecutter had paid a middleman, and the Night Rider had sent a token for passage. The paper, marked with a black symbol, was a ticket for one day, and one pitch. 

When Toecutter and Bubba turned their bikes off the highway, the tyres gripped badly. The bush-rangers lurched and slid over a gravelly road. They rode past hacked-up car chassis, and heaps of shattered glass. With the eyes of ambush-men, they saw the road was groomed. It was washed out in regular trenches, and deliberately choked. 

They were crossing a long killing-floor. Toecutter played with his clutch and throttle to move slowly, to stay close to Bubba. Soon, the mates were forced to ride apart by the wild responses of the Mach IIIs. Toecutter pulled down his goggles, staring over at Zanneti. He saw his wide eyes in the mirror of his boy's silver visor. He forced them to narrow, and rode on.

With a laughing snarl, two bikes shot from cover. They came from a trench with iron-plated walls, and a paved floor that ramped up to the road. The roaring machines were Honda CB750s. They cut slickly between Toecutter and Bubba. The road smoothed out, but there was no way the Mach IIIs could compete with the Hondas-- not in handling, power, or beauty. 

Toecutter examined the hostiles. The leading Honda was a candy-gold model with a clean engine. There were two riders and one weapon. A thin man handled the grips, and moved his black helmet as he scanned Toecutter. He looked tough in red leather, and his long arms and long legs controlled the bike from an easy crouch. Riding pillion, a small man turned his boyish face toward Toecutter. For a moment, the little Acolyte was pretty under his dirty skin, filthy hair, and stubble. Then his soft lips turned hard with a twist, as he aimed his M16 rifle at the bush-ranger. 

The second Honda was a candy-red bike, also carrying a two-man team. The rider wore a yellow helmet and a black leather jacket. His passenger was a burly man, with a reddish rope flying behind his orange helmet. It was a woman's scalp anchoring a thick braid, and Toecutter coveted the trophy. He pictured the donor as lovely and young, to have such a lush mane. Then he noted the rifle as it swung to cover Bubba, and the man's finger rubbing above the trigger.

Toecutter saw this, and fear came grasping at his tense body. If he had one thing of key utility, that was Bubba. The man was his single soldier and only mate. He worried as Zanneti rode in the M16's beaten zone, while the rifleman teased at his trigger. Toecutter wondered if the Acolytes were madmen and sadists, as the nomads thought.

Toecutter had the same reputation, and yet he was a reasoning man. He was willing to talk; he traded and he hired out. Still, as he watched the Acolytes, he understood them. They suffered a hunger to catch and crush, like dogs in the chase. Toecutter had strong passions too. When he took his tools to a captive, his soul rushed at the slippery spurt of an incised body. Though the mouth choked out words, he watched the honesty of the wounds; he saw the flesh opening, and he touched it: soft and wet and responsive.

Just as Toecutter wanted to cut, the Acolytes wanted to kill. Bubba had deciphered this, too. Zanneti was calm in the field of fire, but he made a sign as Toecutter looked at him. Bubba dipped his helmet, just as his bike sprang off a heave of cracked tarmac. It looked as if he'd jolted, but the cool boy never shook; he braced too well on his foot pegs and grips. Toecutter knew that Bubba was nodding down at the core of his body. 

Zanneti wore zip-guns pressed across his belly. Under his combat jacket, four ugly sections of steel pipe were locked in a rack. Every tube had a spring-powered hammer compressed inside the bore. Pivot triggers held the hammers back, by pressing short bolts into the passages. 

Toecutter had watched Bubba drill with this device. He knew the black magic of it. The triggers were squeezed when a cord tightened over them. That cord attached to a garter on Bubba's lower thigh. When he rose up, the cord jerked taut, pulling the bolts, freeing the springs, and driving the hammer pins into the shotgun shells. 

As for aiming, that was the slickest trick. Two of the zip-guns pointed left, at the Acolytes. As he stood, Zanneti could twist his hard belly, adjusting the bullets' trajectory. He loved that challenge. At the set-camp, he practiced for hours, bruising and burning himself. At a range of three meters, his shots reliably tore into the targets. 

If he missed now, the blasts should panic the Acolytes. For men riding on fast bikes, that could be as lethal as a gut-shot, but these were the Night Rider's men. They were renowned for melee-riding and as pillion shootists. They would rally- only, Bubba would have his Mauser in hand before they could return fire. It was risky, but Toecutter lay the better odds on his icy boy.

Toecutter knew that Bubba wanted to take the shots. The moment Toecutter braked out of the killing zone, he would fire. Then the partners would clean the wrecks: delivering the head-shots, collecting the rifles, and running as far and fast as they could, bailing out of bikie land. They would live low, as refugees in the Bronze state: but Toecutter wouldn't have it! He stayed in the firing zone, and Zannetti's tension broke. 

There was no more time, so he had no second thoughts. The road was ending now. It circled at a huge, old station house, under a grove of deadwood. A barbwire fence blocked the way. Past the gate, a large sign hung on rotted posts. The name of the sheep station had faded, and a symbol was painted over the bare wood: a circle bisected by a strong line, with crossbars above and below. It matched the mark on the paper pinned to Toecutter's chest. 

His guts tensed as the escorts brought them to the gate. They would be searched here, and Bubba's triggers pulled easy. The bikes rolled to a stop, and the riders shut off the engines, striking open a chasm of silence. For a moment they were still; the sun glazed their visors and hid the movement of eyes. 

The Acolyte in red leather shifted first. He unsnapped his chinstrap, and removed his dark helmet to show a fierce, narrow face. He had a long jaw and nose, balanced by a wide, gleaming mustache. The second rider was a surfer blond, and his passenger was a bearded man with a sullen look. They stared at Toecutter and Bubba. Toecutter responded with a stiff nod. 

Behind the red-leather rider, the small passenger rose up, standing on his foot pegs. Leaping off the bike's back, he jogged over to Bubba. He licked his bared teeth as he stepped up to him. The Acolyte jabbed the rifle into Bubba's white-blond hair, and raked the steel over his skull. 

Bubba stared toward the station house, his head bobbing with each scrape of the rifle. He shrugged his camouflage jacket off his shoulders, and drew the zipper open with two fingers. As the jacket split, the Acolyte dug his gaze down Bubba's torso. His eyes widened at the black straps and steel pipes, and the layered shirts smeared with gun-oil. He hooted and laughed.

“Oh, I like it, blondy—quality tools, quality work! That's an old saying that must be new to you.” He called back to his partner, “Cundalini! Every year the boy-chicks come rolling in rougher and rougher. This one's armed like a skip-dweller. Zip-guns! Always wondered when we'd find rock bottom!”

He paused as Bubba detached the trigger cord. He stepped back, scowling, as Bubba leaned from his bike, and set the rig gently on the ground. 

“You got any more like that on you?” the Acolyte demanded. 

“What is it, Mudguts?” The mustachioed man called. 

“Some kind of sneak trigger. We've got a sneaky boy here, Cundalini.” The rifle jabbed hard, knocking Bubba over his gas tank. “Sneaky, cause he's slow and scared.”

“Slow is smooth.” Bubba replied in remote tones, gripping the tank, staring into the blue gloss. “And I've never been shy... ”

“There's nothing more on him. There's a pistol under the right side-cover.” Toecutter called out loudly. He couldn't let Zanneti continue. He must seem stable; he must say nothing. 

“Show me.” The young Acolyte demanded. He watched Bubba trip the latch, and laughed as the side-cover sprang. Bubba drew his old Mauser and offered the handle, his lips as tight as Toecutter had ever found them. 

“Oh my, is that your Gran'daddy's gun? Keep it, blondy, don't you see mine is bigger? Just stick your pop-gun in your cute back rig for me.”

Mudguts crept away and pivoted his gun muzzle to cover both the bush-rangers. He called to Toecutter, “What've you got for us?”

“Rigs both sides, fixed blades.” 

The Acolyte sighed. “Is that all? Oh, of course it is. Times are hard, hmm? Well, show me. Let's make sure you have nothing that matters.” 

Toecutter removed his jacket. Mudguts looked, nodded in disdain, and ordered the mates off the Mach III's. The bearded Acolyte dismounted and began to examine the Kawasakis. Toecutter and Bubba stood for a mocking pat-down at Mudgut's hands. 

The Acolyte gripped Toecutter's cock hard through his trousers, cupped his balls and rubbed them with his thumb. When he stroked the man's chest, he twisted his nipples, and after his hand slid behind Toecutter's waist, he rubbed his arse. Zanneti took the same treatment, and the shadows began twitching around his eyes. At last, Mudguts gave Bubba a pat and left him. Toecutter exhaled.

When the Acolytes had finished with the bikes and riders, Mudguts studied the zip-gun rig. He moved it away, planted his foot on it, and yanked the cord, whooping as the shot roared out with a vibratory clang. The blond Acolyte howled back, tossing his long hair. 

“That should intrigue the boss man.” Mudguts smirked. “I hope you continue to amuse us, boys, but I think you've shot your best loads now.” 

“Mudguts.” Cundalini was pointing at the old sign. A slim-fingered hand was curling over the board's edge; a young face was pulling back into hiding. 

“Come out of there, you little drongo.” Mudguts snarled. “You may as well open the gate.”

A tall boy stepped out and looked at the Acolyte with wide eyes. He ran a hand into his curly hair, glossy and dark, as he walked forward. “Don't tell Zano. I only wanted to watch if..”

The boy glanced at Toecutter, paused, and looked down. He fumbled with the latch of the gate, licking his soft lips. He was excited; color moved quickly in his handsome face, his mouth parting as he exhaled. He got the gate open and pulled it back.

He moved with confidence on long legs. As he shifted the gate, his shoulders tensed and firm muscles flexed in his clean, white shirt. He was one of those things you saw in photo albums: bright grass and holiday feasts and gentle, fearless boys. Nice things; they couldn't be bought or stolen, and they couldn't be made now. Someday, there would be no nice things saved and hidden. They would all be used and broken. 

“Don't tell Zano, don't tell Zano!” Mudguts shouted, sing-song. “All the favors you owe me, and you ask me for one more!”

The Acolyte moved behind Toecutter and hissed over his shoulder, “Got your eye on Johnny? Oh, he works fast. He works very fast. I've known that boy since he was twelve, and let me tell you, he's a clever little snake, and very depraved.” 

Mudguts moved away with a laugh. He passed close to Bubba, looked into his face, and gave a louder, higher, and happier laugh. He climbed onto his seat behind the man in red leather, and shouted, “Come on, you deros. Time to go to the station house, and show the boss man what you got.”

Toecutter mounted his bike and slammed down on the kickstarter. He saw the boy staring up at the rumble, his eyes on Toecutter's thick boot, and then his strong calf and thigh, his lean hip, his barrel chest, and his rough face. Suddenly the boy held Toecutter's eyes. As he revved and rolled past, Toecutter wanted to slide his fingers over the pink lips. He wanted to grip the curly hair and force the boy to run with him. He wanted to order him onto the bike and have the slim, hot thighs wrapping his hips, the full package pressing behind his arse. He wanted the boy's cock to rub and thicken on him when he revved the bike and rode fast and stopped hard. He wanted to push him down in the bush and hear him grunt and groan. 

He knew this boy wasn't for hire. He wasn't even the gang's shared bike; he was too fine. This was surely the Night Rider's bed-angel. Montazano had nice things; and so did his mates. Toecutter would do whatever the man demanded, and make himself an ally. Working with Montazano would give him a good name. Then he would have nice things. He would have a boy like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out changes to chapter 2 for more of Bubba's motivations.
> 
> Pretty rough chapter, but not an easy one to chop out. As always, I'll continue to work on it.
> 
> I love the dynamic of Mudguts, Cundalini, and Diabando in the movie. When they play in Wee Jerusalem, it seems that Mudguts and Cundalini have a primary partnership. However, they certainly bring Diabando into the fun. If you don't have the movie (you should) you can see them play on you tube. Search for video "We are here to meet a friend. extended" and go to minute 2:20. 
> 
> It was too hard, however, to flesh them all out in this chapter. I'm not such a skilled writer! So I chose to focus on the little devil of the trio. 
> 
> Just as an aside, Red Jacket is really a hottie, isn't he? Looks good with a messy face. Won't some-one do a PWP of what happens after the gang drops him in the road? There's still a dozen bikies remaining in town... I think they'll have to finish the job for Mudguts, Cundalini, and Diabando.
> 
> Mudguts gives Toecutter the rundown on Johnny in this chapter, but is he a reliable narrator? Remember, he referred to Sprog ( a toddler) as "dessert." If Johnny was "depraved" at twelve, did Mudguts have something to do with that? You can decide! 
> 
> I tried to imply that Johnny was hoping to watch someone be victimized by the Acolytes. I really hope that came through, so he's not all sweetness and light, despite Toecutter's fantasy. Here's what I love about Johnny the Boy: you have to decide for yourself if he is a villain, or if he is a victim, or if he is both. I don't really plan to decide it in this fiction. Please let me know if I'm losing that ambiguity.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh no no,” Johnny was shouting, crouching at the headboard. “Oh no don't no.”
> 
> You may want to take Johnny's advice and skip this chapter. There's a lot of unkind, inconsiderate behavior. Come to think of it, though, that's been par for the course with these blokes. They need better therapists in the forbidden zones. Good opportunity for a young doctor to start up practice.

Sun City lay where the Transcon One escaped the bush and slowed, curving through domestic fields. It was a safe zone, with houses standing on foundations that would be tumbled-down in the forbidden zones. There were autos on the road that wouldn't outrun a bush-ranger on horseback. 

Five times per mile marker, the bikies crossed the center line to pass some shameful waste of steel. They saw old utes, bouncing like slow toads, with caged chickens and bushel baskets in the beds. They roared past caravans that paused, like turtles about to tuck into shells. Tiny scooters flitted to the road-shoulders like sparrows, and the monstrous litre-bikes shot through, engines growling.

Toecutter thought often of fire as he lead the run. A single molotov could have purged these road-cages of the soft meat inside, and slagged the trivial motors driving them. How he wanted to Glorify the road, but this was still the Bronze's yard. When in Rome, he could play the gladiator, but in Sun City, he must be the good citizen. 

They traveled wide of the downtown and found the back blocks. Toecutter and his mates roared down the broken tarmac, and he was at home. Packs of children raced in the alleys, the small ones leaping playfully. The older, hardened boys were hitching one leg as they ran, where they had hidden a pipe or antenna whip. 

The bikies rolled down one alley, scattering the boy pack there. They turned into the gravel yard of the Blackbutt Pub, a center of sordid trade and tradesmen. The Armalites were customers, merchants, and controlling partners. As members of the confederation, the Zed Runners would be welcomed off the road, and could refresh themselves however they chose.

Diabando went to fetch the garage keys, as Toecutter dismounted his bike, moving toward Zanneti. He leaned in and set his hands on Bubba's thighs. The throb of the idling bike made the muscles harder under his touch. It suggested resistance, and he found himself pressing Bubba's legs open. 

Zanneti's boots dropped off the foot pegs. Still, he absorbed the force calmly; he opened his visor and looked down at the strong hands on his thighs. Toecutter gripped harder and hooked his nails in. When the shadowed eyes flared up at him, he gestured for Zanneti to remove his silver helmet. Then he brought his hands to the man's pale face and held the fine jaw in his fingers. 

“Take every care, Bubba.” He growled softly. “I want you back.”

He pulled his fingers slowly over the small chin and away. Zanneti slipped back into his helmet, slapping the visor down. He brought up his kick-stand, and stamped his shifter into first. He twisted his throttle open, accelerating to the alley, and he turned, and upshifted, and vanished. Alone in the hot sun, Toecutter brought out his rolling papers. He fixed a thick blunt with a sifting of brown. He had to relax himself before he got into the Blackbutt, or he'd ruin one of the hussies in the back rooms. 

He stood with Diabando at the bar, eyes roving as the lovelies walked by, forming the line-up. The blond bikie wore a dog's grin. He was yipping softly at the passing women, shifting his boots, and clutching at Toecutter's arm. “That one and that one and, yih, hoooo, that one,” he chanted. 

Toecutter smiled and brushed Diabando off. “Not that one,” he countered, “It's mine. Come here, pretty.”

She was so small, a soft-candy; he might fold her and pull her, and yes he would devour her. He put a hand on her shaven head: the Blackbutt had found a solution to the lice, at last. He found it sexy; she looked waifish, and her heart-shaped face could not hide when he fucked her. He pulled the bow of her blouse and thrust his hand in, pressing and tugging, playing in the hot flesh.

Diabando was playing too. He'd picked a round-bottomed, brown-skinned woman. He was dry-humping the whore, pushing her back to the bar, licking her face, and groaning. Toecutter grabbed the blond bikie's shoulder, and pulled his companions over to a back booth. 

He bent his lady over the table and rolled her short skirt up to her waist. He rubbed at her dry pussy, grunted in anger, and slapped it. He spat in his hand and worked the liquid into her folds and hole. She gasped when he stuck his cock in. He worked at her slowly, with two wet fingers on her clit. She was swelling and so was he, thrusting with a huge hard-on, darkly flushed, and aching. Oh, she was wet now, oh she was smooth and slippery. He looked down at her small, soft body. Her round arse shook as he fucked her, and her spine flexed with each thrust. He stroked the narrow back and her curving flanks, and she felt polished and warm as gloss paint in the sun.

Beside him, Diabando was moaning in his climax. His softening cock spilled out of his ride, in a spurt of cum. He fell into the booth, legs wide. With one hand, he plucked in a confused way at his half-hard, wet rod. “Ohh, wow, wow,” he was muttering, and Toecutter laughed gently. 

He slid his hand under the chest of his woman, and pulled one tit to the side, rolling it out to show the pink nipple and the areola, soft as ripeness when his thumb brushed onto it. Cupping the flesh in his hand, Toecutter began to slam his balls hard into her cunt. The smacking sound finished him. His stones pulled high and convulsed, and a syrupy heat flushed through him. He growled and ground hard on her, grunted and forced her shoulders to the table, pumping, pumping, as Diabando jacked himself.

Standing in the steam he'd made, Toecutter looked down his muscular arm to the whore below it. He'd pressed the small woman tightly onto the table. His strong fingers hooked into her neck. The side of her face lay bared to him, and it was fine and soft. With shaved hair, she could only hide her eyes by shutting them: her lashes shivered on her flushed skin. He wanted that naked face to show his trace. He bit his tongue, so his mouth filled with hot, pinkish liquid. Then he pushed it out, watching it fall onto her cheek. 

Evening came, and Toecutter was restless in the red light, sweltering in the body heat of Diabando and the two whores. He was finger-fucking his girl's cunt, slopping his cum in and out of her. She was drying up, and flinching as he jabbed her sticky hole. The shimmy of her tits had stopped enticing him. He'd given the last of the heroin to the girl. Now his temperament was shifting. 

As his energy changed, the girl's responses sparked an itch in his twitching skin. He wanted to test his strength on her, and not with a fucking. Toecutter frowned and sighed. The urge to throw her to the floor would lead to a desire to kick her. Then he'd want to wet a knife. He took the girl's delicate hand, and forced her wrist to bend in an ugly way. She was a smart thing. She racked off without closing her blouse or slipping her shoes on.

When Bubba returned, Toecutter stood. Zanetti walked slowly, though. He stopped at the booth, hands folded and chin tucked. He studied the wet rings and dirty glasses on the table. He brooded at the cum-stain where Diabando had perched his whore for a second go. 

“Tell me.” Toecutter demanded.

“Cleared the cobwebs, and took the window for myself. The scrubber's house was empty, so I tossed it before my watch. Later, Johnny came home with company. And not a stranger.”

Toecutter knitted his brows, cocking his head. “Who?”

Bubba pulled a picture from his jacket and snapped it over the table. Toecutter caught it and studied the image: a man and a woman in a pool hall, posing with cues. The man was wiry, with a red beard and a hooked nose, and the woman's hair was brown with slashes of fuchsia. Toecutter looked at Zanneti.

“Zano's old lady, Marmi, and her twin brother, Gar. He's a mate of our Johnny, it seems.”

“Johnny must have needed someone to buy for him.” Toecutter smiled. “The dealers won't sell to The Boy, even now, when the Night Rider isn't watching. It's my name that puts them off Johnny. My name, my work. They remember me.”

Two years ago, Toecutter had done a bit of stand-over work in Sun City. Zano had decided it was time for Johnny to clean up. He'd sent Toecutter to make the rounds of The Boy's suppliers, and Johnny had done well since then. 

Bubba spoke sharply. “Maybe Johnny asked this man to buy for him. Maybe he asked this man for a lot of things.” 

Diabando shoved his whore off him. He brushed at his mop of blond hair, clearing his eyes to look at Bubba. Toecutter frowned at Zanneti.

“What do you mean, Bubba?”

“Zano got sloppy. He had too much money in hand, and they knew it: Marmi, Gar, and Johnny.”

Toecutter growled, “They set Zano up. The scrubber and that skag.”

“And Johhny.” The blond man glowered. The shadows under his brows were dark as fume-blued metal.

“Not Johnny.” Toecutter's right hand shot behind his back; his fingers rubbed the cross-hatching of a stag-horn handle. “They're using him; he's a mark. Zano let him get soft in the safe zone.”

“The Night Rider knows what Johnny is.”

“Gar's going to kill The Boy.” Toecutter worried. 

“If not him, then I. When you give the word.”

“No!” Toecutter lunged and seized the back of Bubba's neck. It was a hot column of bone and muscle, flexing under his palm. He pulled Zanneti close to him and hissed into his blond hair, moving his lips in the softness, “Never, Bubba. He is Zano's brother. Our Johnny the Boy. We all have our failings, Bubba, don't we?”

The pale man settled his body. He touched his forehead to his mate's chest as Toecutter spoke. “And so we join with our mates; we work as one force. Then how strong are we, Bubba?”

“Stronger than Bronze.”

“Yes, we're steel.”

Diabando whispered, “Steel,” and stood up. 

Toecutter strode from the Blackbutt with his mates flanking him. He pulled on Kali and his gloves, leaning down to check the big carcass-cleaver in its mounts. The massive blade was secure, and transferred smoothly to his hand. He limbered his right arm, pumping and swinging the steel so it hissed, before he pressed the weapon back into its braces. Then he mounted his bike, jabbed the ignition, shifted, and surged into the dark night.

Zanneti pulled into the lead, guiding them through the black-outs, past holes and heaps of broken tarmac. Before Marmi's block, they hit the cut-switch on their lamps and coasted in the dark. They used momentum to cover the distance through four blocks, without touching the throttles. Silently, the heavy zeds swept into the yard at a tin-roofed, two-story house. 

Diabando leaped off his bike. He charged the door and swung his axe high, cracking into the wood. He kicked the door in and ran through the hall to the second-story steps. Toecutter ran with him, grabbed his shoulder, and shoved him aside at the master bedroom. It was a dark cell with debris on the floor. On a meager bed, The Boy was glorious: naked, smooth, and muscular. 

Johnny was bent over his folded arms, and Gar was twisting away, his cock popping from The Boy's slick arse. Johnny looked over his shoulder; his huge eyes were gleaming, and his mouth hanging open. Toecutter barely saw the man's face; he was amazed by the sight of Johnny's hole, gaping wetly, the pink rim trembling to press shut. He groaned and struck at Gar with the flat of the carcass-cleaver, smashing it over the man's face.

Gar thumped onto the dirty floor on his back. He writhed up onto his hands, curling his torso, bending his legs to stand. Toecutter smashed the spine of the cleaver into Gar's shins, snapping bones. Both Gar and Johnny howled. 

“Oh no no,” Johnny was shouting, crouching at the headboard. “Oh no don't no.”

Diabando jumped onto the bed and locked The Boy's neck in his arms. Bubba walked into the room and circled to the window. He stared down at the night road, his hand inside his jacket, holding the butt of his .357. 

“Garrrr.” Toecutter snarled. He turned the steel handle so the carcass-cleaver's edge faced the man. “Gar, this isn't your house. That isn't your boy. Why are you here?”

Toecutter spun, to scream at The Boy, “Why, Johnny? Why's he here, you whore!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm reasonably confident that I haven't chase you all off. But this scene continues. Next chapter, you get a break, and can enjoy the comic madness that is the Night Rider's hospitality. But after that, we pick up this scene. The way I've sketched it, it gets graphic. Toecutter does his thing. Would you prefer I implied, or can I show and tell? 
> 
> I've always felt that Toecutter is the savage one, though he aims for better: he prides himself on his civil behavior in public. He probably thinks it shows strength and discernment. But in private, and when provoked, he has a justification to let go, have fun, and be himself. I'd like to let him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Toecutter makes an elevator pitch in hell. The Night Rider is devil's advocate, and Johnny plays angel. I don't even know what to say of the Acolytes. They're just not right. I wonder if they had mothers. I wonder if they ate them.

The Night Rider's station house stood on damaged posts, cracked and split, over dust and rocks. The porch floor was humped and sunken, and so was the pitch of the metal roof. A mesh of gum-tree branches had formed in the slumps, so the building was thatched in parts. The bare steel was mottled with tar patches and rust. 

Whatever its integrity, the roof was not neglected. It was the site of a self-taught sculptor's garden. Junk parts covered the slopes, welded and bolted down. Some of it had a sensible use: there were gun nests fabricated with bumpers, set at both ends of the roof-line. Most of it looked a mad mess: a garden maze of chromed and gloss-painted metal, planted in place of hedges. 

Down below, the landscape was altered by more bizarre features. Riding to the station house, Toecutter leaned right and left, adapting his course. He passed a pyramid of broken helmets, and wended among wind-chimes of body armor. As he rounded tighter turns, he saw Bubba following. Zanneti's riding form was steady and understated. Even here, surrounded by hazards, he barely shifted on his seat. 

When they dismounted by the main door, Toecutter looked warmly at Bubba. He saw Zanneti rally with him in a subtle way: relaxing his shoulders and lifting his gaze. The two bush rangers dismounted and stood close, hearing the creak of riding clothes, and the soft pop of unlocking joints. 

The Acolytes leaped off their handsome Hondas. They stalked along the porch like the native cats, born here in the piles of broken things. The tall man, Cundalini, slapped open the main doors. He and his mates pressed into the dark space beyond. The bush rangers followed.

The central hall of the station house was torn open. The walls had been hammered away, forging the side rooms into one space. Oil-burning lamps sat on long work benches; they glowed under emerald and brass shades. The radiance soaked into rifle parts: blocks and cylinders of parkerized darkness. 

Below the tables, the floor was stained with black oil and acid burns. Salvaged motor parts lay soaking in basins or leaking onto the wood. Chemical fumes and weed smoke thickened the air, enfolding a rumble of men's voices. The sound revved into loud yells as the two attack teams entered, with Toecutter and Bubba following.

Two dozen Acolytes were seated in dining chairs, wing-backs, and porch-style loungers. They wore only trousers, boots, and weapons: rifle slings, and rigs of knives and pistols. Skin shone, wet, and holding chrome and gold rings. Sweat was sliding into the seat fabrics, darkening the brocades, the cracked leathers, and the velvets. The room stank of men and motors and cheap durries. 

Mudguts skipped forward, and dragged two chairs over to a bare wall. He thumped the dirty padding and pillows, and brushed at the grime that was well-rubbed into the damp fabric. He gave Toecutter a long, quirky smile as he played at cleaning. 

The two bush-rangers moved toward the young Acolyte. Mudguts leaped back into one chair, throwing his legs onto the other. He laughed boyishly as he tumbled in the chairs. This one was a silly, sadistic gallah, Toecutter thought. Though with a bath and a beating, he could be much improved. 

Cundalini stooped above Mudguts, and dragged him up by his hand. Mudguts cackled, and swung himself onto the other Acolyte. He hugged the man's lean torso, pressing his crotch on a long thigh. Red leather creaked as the small man pressed into it, and dragged his dirty fingers over it. As Mudguts laughed softly into Cundalini's neck, the tall man waved the bush rangers into the seats.

Toecutter smiled at Cundalini, nodded gently at Mudguts, and took the leather chair. He leaned into the raked seat-back, sliding his hands over the long, oaken sides. Bubba lowered himself into a formal seat; he sat with loose shoulders, placing his hands on his open thighs. He'd made space to draw the Mauser from his back-rig. 

As they settled, Toecutter focused on the Night Rider. Crawford Montazano was a burly man, with a rough goatee framing his mouth. The gold ring in his ear, and the position of his gang tattoo, were known markers of the Night Rider. Some would have confirmed him by those signs. For Toecutter, though, it was the man's bare feet: soles hard and gray, and the top of the left foot scarified, marked by thousands of moments below the shifter peg of a motorcycle.

The Night Rider liked his flesh to touch metal and he didn't fear the road. Once, leaning hard to make a suicide curve, he had ground the skin off the side of his foot. He'd maintained his lean, and the pursuing Bronze had not. 

The Armalites boasted that the Night Rider had made a pact with Satan at the crossroads of Transcon One and Transcon Two. Old Nick had made Montazano the master of all motors; allowing that no one but the devil himself would wreck him. 

Here in his station house, the Night Rider was idling but impressive. He sat open-legged on the floor, working on a grimy set of Mikuni carburetors: a long block of four. Montazano had taken off the tops, slides, bowls, and floats. He was probing the housings with a screwdriver, and he had picks and pliers at his side.

The Night Rider's hard arms and hairy chest were bare, and twitching with energy. He looked up at the two bush rangers and gestured at the parts. “Just got this bike. Can't wait to get her running right. Have to get the needles, valves, and jets soaking.”

As Toecutter watched, the Night Rider removed the small parts. He tossed them in a jelly jar, smeared with his black prints. He sprayed cleaner into the jar, and then into bowls and housings. Wiping his hands with a white rag, the man grunted with satisfaction. He looked up and saw Toecutter leaning, staring.

“Mikuni, 29 mm smooth-bore. So, what's the bike?” The Night Rider prodded.

Toecutter rubbed his hands, missing the grime that would coat them during a shop day. “Could be a modded KZ900 or KZ1000. 4 in 1 exaust.... High lift cams, high compression pistons... That's a Bronze set-up.” 

The Night Rider laughed joyfully. “Yeah, the Z1000. Only Zed in the zone. Bronze had, let's say, ten in the state. Now they have nine. This brute didn't come direct from them, though. That's why it's a mess. One thing I'll say for the Bronze: they run clean engines. 

“A while back, this bike got jacked by a gang-boy in the Sydney Restricted Zone. He rode it all the way out here, looking for Glory. The boy wasn't a rev-head, and being a green bushie, he passed a lot of time in his hidey-hole. He let this bike sit, and he bought stale fuel, cut with jenny brew. He did OK, though, on his runs... until he took an M16 off a road train, and decided to keep it for himself.” 

Toecutter frowned. “That's a mad thing to do. Though I've heard they're all mad in the old city zones. Poxed and kemmed up. ”

The Night Rider grunted. “We had eyes on him, and Sydney wasn't so loose as all that. He did a bit of running for the 'Zerkers, and they liked him. But Armalites don't make exceptions. We got word of him holding a full auto, and we came for what's ours. And now, the bike is mine, too.”

The Night Rider grinned. “And that's good timing. Glory is on the horizon, boys. The pollies want to try us again. They're backing an MFP surge, and they've got the gold to bring over a dozen more of these litre bikes. 

“The Bronze need more horsepower than we've got. That's key for them, since they haven't got the balls to go hard. Only thing is, I'll be riding melee on them from the back of this monster. And with a Zed under me, I'll bring retribution for all the Glory Roaders.”

Montazano rubbed his chin, blackening it. He snapped his fingers, calling, “Air!”

A large man came forward, offering a rubber hose to Montizano, who took the nozzle and growled. “Turn the generator on, man, and then the compressor.” 

The big man turned his heavy shoulders and thick body. Montazano whipped the hose, and cracked the nozzle into the side of the man's head. Many of the Acolytes laughed. The huge man chuckled as well, as he walked to the machines.

“Metal plate,” Montazano said. “Beat it all day and he doesn't feel a thing. Good man, Clunk. All good men, here. See the bronze patches they wear? You know what that means.”

“Yes.” Toecutter affirmed, and Bubba nodded. 

Montazano slid a pair of oily goggles over his eyes, and blasted the carburetors with compressed air. Filthy fluid spurted on his skin and jeans, as the alloy began to shine. The Night Rider slid the goggles back into his hair, and looked into the gleaming cavities. Then he gazed at Toecutter and Bubba.

“Me and my men. Before this was the Restricted Zone, these were our roads. We were boys, racing and dueling. Free! The Bronze kept to the town roads, and we went deep, living as we chose. Then the pollies decided we were “disruptive to continental commerce.” Ha! And just like that, they took a pen and wrote a claim on these roads. Our Glory Roads: scorched and stained by our wrecks.”

Montazano belly-laughed. “So the Bronze came at us. And we came back at them. We were the first to ride melee on the Bronze, wherever we found them. Not the most deadly, but the first. And when the Armalites formed up, they asked us to come in. We're gang-men now. But we're still wreck freaks. 

“I've seen how you ride, Toecutter. I look at you, and I don't see much meat on the bone, but I think the marrow is strong.” 

Montazano snapped his fingers. “Diabando. Give me that zip rig.”

The long-haired blond stood to toss the rig. It crossed the room with mean velocity. The Night Rider jabbed his hands into its path, taking it with a loud slap. He held the steel pipes high. Zanneti watched like a white doberman, pale and tense.

“Now this.” Montazano stared at Bubba, shook the rig at him, and laughed. “This is fucking madness. Zip guns strapped to your belly? One of them blows, your liver is hash. You know that?”

“Lower aorta, bisected. Quick.” Bubba said. He'd gone distant; back to the shack and Toecutter's anatomy books, which Bubba perused too often and for objectionable ends. Morbid man. But there was only so much redirection Toecutter could manage... 

Montazano returned to Toecutter. “Your man there is mad and smart and fearless. You should have done better by him, better than this kamikaze shit. Know that? You've got him heading for wreck.”

“I don't think so.” Toecutter spoke softly, despite the burn of rage squirming in his mind. “We have a big take. A name-maker. We just need to move a package past the Bronze. And you're a delivery man, a runner. The best.”

“Sure...I can be that man.” Montazano gave Toecutter a hard look, as though he saw the pride and anger, as though the smooth and lilting words hadn't fooled him. “If that's why you're here, it's money or goods today. Then I do my part. But you don't have the dosh. So you're not hiring, you're selling. Do you understand me, man? If you've got good oil, I pay you, and then you're out of it. It's not gonna be your slice.” 

“We'll have our slice.” Toecutter asserted. “We left blood and fire on the road, and what we took, we'll slice.”

He touched his left bicep. There, a wound was burning below a bush-dressing of boiled cloth. “You direct us to the right route. We're the 'kamikaze.' We run the blockades. And when we slice, we'll slice for you, too.”

“Huh. You want to do the run.”

“We do the run. And you're with us, only until you decide it's not worth it.”

“I already know it's not worth it.” Montazano smiled at Toecutter. “Tell me... this 'take' of yours... How the fuck will you move it? Who the fuck will buy it? More to the point... why the fuck did you bastards hijack a shipment of yellowcake uranium? Couldn't you find one full of brown snakes?”

He put his hands on his thick, leather belt, wrenching and crushing it. The Acolytes rose, watching with merry eyes, as if the Night Rider were not shouting, and not panting, as he spoke. 

“And finally, why the hell shouldn't I be skull-fucking your corpse right now?”

Toecutter swallowed and felt his eyes widening. Bubba's nose was flaring and pinching. Toecutter made a shushing sound at his mate, and resumed his pitch.

“We don't move it. We don't sell it. We ransom it.”

Montazano stood, growling softly. “Ransom it. Who's your message-man? Your boy here? Do you know where to send him? Cause I sure as fuck don't.” 

The Night Rider frowned at Toecutter. “You don't know a thing. Hell, you never knew what you were hitting. That's how small outfits run: they ride blind in a sand-storm. Well, fucker, you're in the wasteland now. That MFP surge? I'm bringing that on you boys. All on you.” 

Montazano wore a rude grin: white, glistening, both ugly and charming. “Goddamn, I should send you on your run, watch you burn. Kamikaze.”

“Fair go.” Toecutter rose to face the Night Rider. “I have a message-man. He's one of the civvies we took from the road train. They're all worth as much as the fuel. You see, they're the ones who know what to do with it. We'll bring our message-man out of the zone, and he'll talk his way to the top men. He'll make this work. 

“He wants to save his mates, and his wife. He asked if we had ice for her fingers. I told him we did, but not much. So, he's in a hurry to get started. I hate to delay him.” 

The Night Rider stared. His mustache curled up, and he chuckled through his white teeth. “Ice for her fingers? What the fuck... fucking coasties. Ice! Ice! That civvie has got petrol in his oil. He wants ice in the wasteland!”

Toecutter nodded, “Well, coasties, they're not clever men. He believes we have her fingers on ice. So he'll believe in the deal. And the top men will take it. What choice do they have? That MFP surge will burn out at the borders of the zone. They know it.”

“So how do you slice this?”

“We ask for ammo, batteries, petrol. We light flares, and they deliver by air-drop. ”

“The return?”

“On the following night. We light flares at the stash site; they fly over and find the trucks and the civvies. They land a team to drive them out.”

The Night Rider drove his fingers into his goatee, standing the rough hair up. “Ransoms, they can work out. I don't do them a lot, though. Probably the coasties want me to do more. But the wet salvage has its uses out here. That wife, is she young? Pretty? Are the men engineers? Are they good with engines, or generators? Do they know how to build solar stills, bio-reactors? Set up wild-cat oil pumps? Repair mining equipment?”

“Fair go.” Toecutter urged. 

“You had your fair go.” The Night Rider declared. “For two years, I've had you boys on my borders, and I've watched you learn the trade. You did well.”

He pushed the Mikuni carburetors with his bare foot. “Like Sydney did well, and would have made a good probie for the 'Zerkers. I'll tell you: the timing is hard to get right. I want seasoned men. In your case, I thought you'd come to me. Well, you have. You came too late. I can't take the bastard who brought an MFP surge to the zone.”

Toecutter looked at the shining smooth-bores, and he thought of the Night Rider's joy in salvaging them. He softly licked his lips, and spoke. “The surge, what is it? It's not the new men, they're nothing. Fascist dogs, but never blooded. Who knows if they've got the heart for the fight? No. The surge...it's the machines. The super-bikes, the guns, the ammo, and the new parts for old cars and radios... that's the surge.”

“Yeah.” The Night Rider said grimly. “That's the surge. In time, we'll take the Zeds and the rifles, like we took the zone. And we'll pay for those fucking bikes, just as we did for every mile of road in the zone. We'll bury brothers.”

Crawford Montazano bent and picked up the Mikunis. In the silvery concavities, the light was twitching; the Night Rider was shaking. “You'd understand, if I had brought you in a year ago. Like I should have. I would have. But that boy of yours, he had petrol in his oil. Hell, I can't tell if you've got him running clean now.”

Toecutter nodded thoughtfully. “Bubba.”

Zanneti rose and came to his side, and Toecutter brushed his fingers into the short hair. He was gentle, knowing that the boy's scalp was bruised, and Zanneti would not communicate his pain.

“He runs fine, and he's worth it.” Toecutter paused. “You'd understand, if you had more time with him.”

“I don't. This is your one day of safe passage.” Montazano said. “Tomorrow, there's no safe place, no matter where you run.”

“I told you about the run we're taking. We'll find the route ourselves.”

“You know what, Toecutter? I'm gonna say... I wish you bastards luck with that. I do. It's hardly a plan. It's a wish. But that's all you've got... take it and ride hard.” 

“My plan. I've changed my mind about one thing.”

The Night Rider laughed. “No fucking point. It's all as thin as primer.”

“Well, the slice. I don't want black-market goods. I'm going to ask for parts for Ford Falcons, service revolvers and rifles, and their ammunition. Finally, a dozen KZ1000 models. If the coasties get the yellowcake back, they don't need a surge.” 

Montazano stared. His mustache jerked, and then his fingers slapped the sides of his face, rubbing his oily skin. He turned from side to side and finally whooped. He shoved Toecutter back a step; then he dragged him close by the collar of his riding jacket. “You bastard! I see that, man, I see that. I fucking see you!”

Confident now, Toecutter nodded at Zanneti, who was stiff and disturbed and staring darkly at the Night Rider. Laughter, and stamping, and shouting surrounded them as the Acolytes responded to Montazano. He thrust his hands up and crowed to them, “I'm taking a fucking run, boys!”

He grabbed Toecutter and pounded his back; Toecutter thumped him back as hard. As the Acolytes' hands slapped at his shoulders, he saw Zanneti stand in the mayhem, looking only at him. Toecutter laughed, and push-started the boy by shoving his shoulder. He watched Zanneti edge back to a dark shadow. Then, Toecutter decided to shine.

Toecutter sat down on the floor with the Night Rider. They spoke of freedom and resistance and motorcycles. Mudguts went to the back of the house for a bottle, and Diabando followed him. The blond filled his shirt with a clinking pile of dirty shot glasses. There were too few, so the Acolytes passed them hand to hand. The bottle was something new to Toecutter: embossed with gold, faceted, and full of silky bourbon. They killed it fast, and Montazano called for a second. 

Warm and firm, a body pushed into the circle, shoving Toecutter. His fingers loosened on his shot glass as he saw the dark curls, softly brushing his shoulder. The boy poured into Montazano's glass, and then into Toecutter's glass. Bringing the bottle to his pink lips, Johnny pulled a long swallow into his mouth. 

The Night Rider laughed and slapped the boy's back. Johnny leaned defensively to the side, bracing with a hand on Toecutter's thigh. Chuckling, Montazano shook his head at the bush ranger. “My wild man, Johnny. My half brother. Fucking larrikin.”

Montazano slapped the side of Johnny's tan face, and the flesh reddened. The boy tipped back, pressing into Toecutter. Johnny's hand tightened on his thigh. The boy's body was both solid and slender, and his muscles were hot, his shirt damp. Toecutter quickly snapped the shot glass to his mouth, swallowing the bourbon, and passed the glass on. 

Now the bush ranger could handle Johnny. He shoved firmly at the boy's back, levering him up. Johnny arched over the pressure, balancing his torso on Toecutter's hand. The boy tossed his head back, and tipped the bottle over his mouth. 

“Johnny!” The Night Rider was laughing, his eyes gleaming, his chest shaking so the sweat and filth shivered. “You'll be a cot case in a minute!”

“I'm drinking with you tonight, Zano!” The boy declared. “I'm going on the run with you, too.”

“Ha! On your 350 four, is that right? But Johnny, you could scuff up that custom paint job you're so proud of.”

“Hey! Hey, YOU ride my 350, and I'LL ride your Zed!”

Johnny had a soft, sexy chuckle. He sucked at the bottle and pivoted off Toecutter's hand. Coughing, he opened his mouth. Liquor spilled out, down Johnny's toned right arm, onto the back of Johnny's hand, onto Toecutter's pants. 

“Oh,” the boy murmured. He brought his hand up and looked through his wet fingers at Toecutter. He paused, hitting the man with his dark eyes, before continuing. “Oh, man, sorry, I just... forgot to swallow.” 

Johnny handed the bottle to a laughing Montazano. Men were hooting as Diabando grabbed the boy's shoulders and pulled him up. Johnny stared curiously at his long legs and took a heavy step. An Acolyte pushed him, and then a second, and they forced the boy onward, passing him hand to hand. He swore as they brought him to the door, but the last man tucked him close, and got him walking into the back rooms. 

Toecutter pulled his jacket down and touched his fingers to the cold spot on his thigh. Over to the right of that, he was much too hot, swelling to breach his waistband with the wet, pink head of his cock. Before covering, he'd thought the boy had stared...but only the boy, who was drunk and too young to press him...and who was not Montazano's lover. 

Johnny was something more difficult. Mudguts had warned him. But depraved? No. Not with that shamefaced look, not in the way he'd waited for Toecutter to do something...and Toecutter had done nothing. He wished he'd known what he should have done. He only knew what he wanted, but it was too dangerous to take. He wanted that sweet mouth, and for the boy to forget to swallow a second time. 

Toecutter looked for Zanneti. He wanted his gaze of faith. Bubba was staring into the hall where Johnny had gone. His face was rigid and body tense. Montazano's remarks must have cut him to the bone: all that spitting on his soundness, calling 'petrol in the oil.' The roughness and loudness of the Acolytes had appalled him. Watching them manhandle the boy had disturbed him, too. Zanneti never cared for excitement, nor did he enjoy a mob scene. But tonight was all for the good, and when Toecutter told him so, Bubba would accept. He was not complex. It was no effort to do right by him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter is too long. It may make no sense. I lack editing abilities as I'm on pain meds. I lack any judgement whatsoever. Of course, that's me, but I do think it's more pronounced right now. If you all want to help advise, I'm open. Does the plot make any sense? It could, it should, but I may have hashed it up. Ah, well, soon we get back to the simpler and more direct approach of the mature Toecutter.
> 
> It's my intention to make him cocky, raw, and ignorant in the pre-Zed Runner days. He's about twenty-four, Zanneti twenty, Mudguts twenty-two but small and silly and unbalanced, Montazano only a few years older than Toecutter...none of them really as wise as they think. Johnny is perhaps fourteen. Therefore, obviously an innocent. And yes, way way too young for Toecutter.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Torture, sex, and life lessons are tricky to combine. A good mentor, however, will make an attempt.
> 
> (Hope you all saw Chapter Six first)

Toecutter glared at The Boy, baring his teeth, gasping into a long hiss of fury. The carcass-cleaver swung in his hand, as he held a roar in his chest. Toecutter did not like to be loud; he made others scream for him.

Diabando ducked behind Johnny's slim body, holding him as a barrier. Toecutter could see the hard rolling of Johnny's muscle, and the soft glide of his skin, as he fought Diabando. They were shining in the window's fulsome glare.

Bubba stayed in the dark, by the wall. His body was a pillar of black, and his face had a silver pallor. His hand was on his revolver, tucked in his oilskin jacket. Zanneti was watching Toecutter, who feared that he must give Johnny to him. His chest hurt as if he'd punctured it, as if he'd cut his aorta. His devil waited patiently and coolly, and what could his angel say? What could he say?

“Johnny, what have you done!” He growled finally, jerking the cleaver over Gar's body. 

“He makes me, he makes me.” Johnny fell to one side, pulling Diabando with him, and lay on the bed. He shoved a hand toward Toecutter, opening his long fingers. “He took my stash. He got me junk sick. Ah, let go of me, man!”

Johnny slapped at Diabando, who shifted the clench to his right arm, yanked The Boy's head back, and pounded him hard in the ribs. Johnny gasped and shut his eyes. He swept his hands to his sides and hugged himself. “Ahh, man...” He groaned softly. 

While Diabando handled The Boy, Toecutter leaped at Gar. He gripped him by his left ankle, pulling as the man howled. He felt the shift of the snapped bones, clicking in the flesh. Gar doubled himself and used his hands to chop at Toecutter. The bikie let go, stepped back, and began to circle and kick into soft and hard.

On the bed, Johnny was moaning in fear. Diabando loosened his punishing grip, and bear-hugged The Boy. Johnny's eyes stared at Toecutter. His mouth fell open as panic shook his naked body.

“Garrrr!” Toecutter was snarling. He couldn't stop hissing the word. Swinging the cleaver over his head, he broke Gar's right humerus with the blade's thick spine. Hooking his boot in the man's belly, he shoved hard to roll him and bare his left side. Then he hit the shoulder, shattering it, and the ribs, cracking them. 

Toecutter flung the carcass-cleaver down. He pulled his fixed blade out of his back rig, and set it beside the cleaver. He loosened the buckles of his black riding boots, removed the hunting knife, and jerked the boots off. Then Toecutter opened his belt, and stepped out of his pants. He pulled his jacket over his head, turning it inside out so the tools gleamed at him, and lay it down. The shirt followed, and finally, the rig. He gathered his hair, and fixed it in a topknot. 

Heaving Gar onto his back, Toecutter mounted the man's hips. Garr lay wheezing. His nose was crushed; mucous and blood slid on his face, and his beard was sodden. Toecutter put a palm on the man's chest and massaged the hot meat. There wasn't much of it on the bony body.

Toecutter saw his own muscular thighs as they framed Gar's thin ribs. He stretched his burly arms, inhaling to demonstrate the depth of his chest. His cock was tucked to one side, trapped down, though semi-hard. With one hand, he shifted the rod to show that it was thicker and longer than Gar's droop of soft flesh. 

Toecutter leaned to the side and gripped the handle of a mid-size cleaver. In the dark, the blade turned the moonbeams, flashing onto him, and then Gar. Toecutter lowered the cleaver to the bloody face below him.

“Gar.” He used a firm tone. “You know who I am.”

The man gaped and choked, coughing the name. “to'Cuh'ter.”

Johnny hissed in the dark room. “I told you he'd come.”

Diabando growled, “Belt up, Johnny.” 

Toecutter laughed, “No, let The Boy talk. Gar, you want Johnny to talk, don't you? You want him to name all the blokes holding for Zano. Name all the places Zano hides his goods. Names and places: that's what you want from Johnny, when you're not fucking him.” 

Gar's throat shook. “no, johnny, he wanted...junk. i gave...”

Johnny shouted, “You took my stash, and made me...sick, I'm sick, it hurts. I can't stand it. I showed him the safe. I told him the code.”

“Is that so?” Toecutter remarked, and tapped the cleaver into Gar's chin, notching a dark cleft: a crack that sparkled like black quartz. “Yes or no. Have you taken what belongs to the Night Rider?”

Gar groaned, darkness flowing down his jaw and neck. “yesss. but you, i did nothing to you... i'll give it back. i'll give it back.”

“How do you give pride back?”

“pride?”

“My pride. Zano's pride. That's why I'm here.”

On the bed, Johnny thrashed and called out, “I got my pride, I'm no bronze polisher! It was Gar who called the bronze! Never me! Hey, let me go! Gar called the Bronze!”

“Did he?” Toecutter lifted the cleaver, and reached for Gar's left hand. He pinched the bony fingers in his fist, then yanked the hand onto the man's chest, pressing it onto the sternum. “Did you? Tell you what. You have five fingers here. I'll ask five questions. If you don't tell me, and tell me true, I'll have a finger for that.”

“yeh...tell you...”

“Who dobbed in the Night Rider?”

Gar choked, “me... he hit my sister.”

“So? You could have hit someone's sister. You'd be even then.” Toecutter lifted Gar's hand and folded the little finger to the palm, then pressed the others back onto the man's chest. “Now that finger is yours. Do you know what we're doing here, Gar?” 

The man drooled blood into his wet beard. “pride...”

“No, that's why I'm here. Not you, Gar. You can't possibly have pride. But that's your honest thought. I must accept it: ignorance is man's natural state.” Toecutter stared curiously at Gar. “Now, I'll tell you what we're doing here. We're establishing trust.” 

Toecutter folded a second finger into Gar's palm. “Two fingers for you, Gar! You must like this game. You're doing well.”

He set the cleaver on Gar's middle finger. “Gar? Was it Marmi who told you to do it? Did she tell you that Zano had gold in the safe, enough to run a long way, and hide a long, long time?” 

“no...” Gar husked. “the boy...”

“I was setting him up!” Johnny shouted. “I thought he'd take it and run, and Zano would hunt him, kill him. That's why I showed him the safe. I had to do it. He wouldn't buy for me, if I didn't let him... fuck me. But I never, I never told him to dob Zano in. That wasn't me, man, that was him. Him!”

“Now shut his mouth, Diabando. That's all I have to know.” The Boy choked, falling into a quiet, muffled panting. 

Toecutter tucked the middle finger into Gar's fist. “Now. Did you think a safe zone is safe from the Zed Runners? Did you think I wouldn't remember the Night Rider? Did you think I had no pride? Did you think I wouldn't come for you? Did you think you could do this and live?”

Gar tried to retract his hand, as Toecutter shifted his grip up the forearm, and swung the cleaver high.

“nooo!” The scag gasped.

“That's five lies,” said Toecutter, and chopped through the man's wrist, into his sternum. “Five fingers to me.”

The bikie let the cleaver stand in Gar's chest. The man's stump waved, slapping Toecutter's torso, and pulsing dark fluid. Toecutter snatched the hand. He pressed it to his heart. Then he took the hand by the thumb, and swung it, tossing it onto the bed.

“Watch me, Johnny.” Toecutter snarled, as Johnny fought with Diabando, bodies whipping on the bed. 

Diabando, cursing, pulled at Johnny's long legs as they kicked. He finally pinned them, and seized Johnny's balls. The Boy yelped and froze. Holding Johnny by his sack and his curly head, Diabando roughly turned him to face Toecutter. On all fours, his lips glossy and open, his eyes dark and huge, his muscles shimmering with sweat, The Boy was perfect. The severed hand bled a small, black pool under Johnny's chest. 

“Good boy,” Toecutter whispered. “Johnny. It's all right, it's all right. Just watch.” 

He set the cleaver aside, and pulled a wooden dowel from a pocket in his jacket's lining. The short stick was pierced with a loop of thick wire. Toecutter gripped Gar's stump, and slipped the garrot onto it, moving it high up the limb, and twisting the dowel to set the tourniquet. With Gar banded in steel, the man trembling and hoarsely howling, Toecutter began the session with the rasp. 

As he worked, Toecutter heard The Boy gasping and moaning. He wanted Johnny to piss himself. If that happened, he would take Johnny's cock in his hand, and force the flow onto Johnny's belly and chest. When the last spurt had come, he would press Johnny down in his piss and fuck him. He would pump that pink hole; he would leave it slick and open and spilling his cum. Then he would admire his Johnny, handsome and filthy, emptied and filled. 

Toecutter took rests, climbing onto the bed and lounging beside Johnny and Diabando. He sat close to The Boy, inhaling and running a gentle hand inside The Boy's thighs. Johnny gave him nothing but sweat and sound, groaning and pulling back. The Boy never surrendered that wetness, that raw aroma and those hot rivulets, that red-faced shame and softening posture. 

Finally Toecutter had bloodied and wiped all his small blades: the razor, the rakes, the rasp, the fixed blade, and the butcher's cleaver. He made the last chop with the carcass-cleaver. He stood, mottled by a glaze of sweat and gore, looking at his witnesses. 

Bubba stood calmly, watching both the road and the room. As Toecutter gestured, Zanneti walked forward. His black riding-suit was a shadow, coming slowly over the gray floor. When Bubba stepped into the blood, he stopped, his hands clasped below his belt. He pulled his shoulders back, and he looked at the bed.

Johnny was tumbled under Diabando, both of them low and hunched. Toecutter moved toward them, with Zanneti pivoting and shadowing him. Toecutter stood at the side of the bed and thought patiently, considering The Boy and then himself. He felt strange. His skin was bare, exposed, as if even the blood had peeled away. He tugged the chain of a small lamp mounted on the wall, and stared at The Boy in the half-powered, pulsing glow. 

Johnny pulled himself up, flexing all the muscles in his firm body. Brown nipples moved on his pecs and his hard belly fluttered. His cock was hanging, plump and smooth-helmeted, over a pink sack that would roll tenderly in Toecutter's palm. The covering hair was soft, fine, and dark. Toecutter stepped to the right, and saw The Boy's arse, round and high behind his slim hips.

Quietly, Toecutter ordered, “Bubba. Diabando. Out.”

Alone, he moved onto the bed and swept the severed hand away. He took The Boy by a shoulder, pushing him down onto his hands, and swung himself behind Johnny.

“No,” Johnny barked in panic. “No, I won't.”

Toecutter laughed and pulled back on the hips. He took his cock in one hand and searched with its wet glans for Johnny's soft, lubed hole. 

“No!” The Boy shouted, and lunged forward, turning and punching Toecutter's neck. The bikie coughed and shoved Johnny back. He swung at Johnny's face, but The Boy blocked his fist. Toecutter jabbed The Boy's chest and shoulders, and forced him to fall back on the bed. He got his leg over The Boy's hips and pressed the tight body down. 

“You won't do the same for me as you did for Gar?” Toecutter demanded. “Haven't I been a friend to you, Johnny?”

He pressed his hands onto The Boy's throat, and Johnny's hips bucked under him, twisting, throwing him to the side. Johnny mounted him and began to choke him. Toecutter felt his blood swell in hard knots in his neck, as his face went cool. He lifted his hips as Johnny had done, but The Boy shifted a long leg to the side, bracing himself. Toecutter saw Johnny's eyes turn to the window. The Boy would die if he went out that window.

There was a gunman waiting for him. Zanneti would not be lounging in the hall with Diabando; he would be watching in the yard. He would have steadied his revolver, and his cold finger would pull as The Boy showed his face. 

Toecutter felt a harsh beat of his heart. Johnny was His Boy. His Boy, His Boy. He had never made him know it. He had lost the pride of having him, unless he took him now. He grabbed and dragged at Johnny's left ear, and punched him in his right temple. 

The Boy let go of the bikie's neck. He gripped Toecutter's wrist with one hand, and with the other, clawed at the fingers hooking his flesh. 

“Let go, let go,” Johnny yelled. 

Toecutter yanked The Boy by his ear. 

“Stop!” Johnny swiped for Toecutter's face, but Toecutter rose, and Johnny's nails burned along his chest. In pain, and fearing mutilation, Johnny broke. He fought like a child, shoving at Toecutter, and whimpering.

The bush ranger pulled The Boy by his ear. He put him on his side, rolled him face-down, and lay over him. Johnny was gasping, writhing. Toecutter pressed him into the bed and felt his breathing weaken. 

“Johnny, Johnny,” Toecutter husked.

“Get off.” The Boy gasped. “I won't. Let you. Fuck me. Before. You kill me.”

“Johnny! Kill you? You're rushing me. It's too soon to think about that.” 

He placed his palms on Johnny's shoulder blades and pushed himself up. “I'm going to let you breath, Johnny. Don't move.”

He shifted his hands to the side and looked down at The Boy's smooth back. It shook with rapid gasps. He rubbed Johnny's bicep, a curve of hot flesh. Johnny rolled his right eye to stare at Toecutter. 

“I won't let you. I won't.”

Toecutter frowned. “You let Gar.”

“He was going to die for that!” Johnny snarled fiercely. He nodded at the bedside table. “You see those bags? Gar liked speed balls. He thought one bag was coke, and the other was junk. But they're both junk, and when he shot up, he would have been wreck.” 

Toecutter brushed one hand over The Boy's dark, wet curls. “You were going to kill him. Good, Johnny. That's good. And fighting me. That's good.” 

Johnny gaped at him. Toecutter rubbed the strong back, admiring the flush in the handsome face. As he petted The Boy, he pointed at the bedside table. There were sacks of chalky pills and glossy ones, a packet of white powder, and one of brown. Pale dust coated the dark wood, where Johnny and Gar had snorted lines before fucking. “When Zano was taken, you didn't know what to do, did you? You knew one thing: you wanted to get high, and stay high. Gar offered that. He met your price. He bought you. The man who betrayed your brother. He bought you.”

The Boy frowned. “No, no, that's not true... I'm not...”

“Belt up, Johnny.” Toecutter growled, and The Boy pressed his lips shut, his eyes darting. The bikie moved off the lean body. He sat on the bed, pulling The Boy up beside him. Toecutter grabbed the handsome face in his hands. The jaw locked as he touched it, and the dark eyes flicked down. 

“Johnny.” Toecutter soothed. “You've known me a long time. We're familiar, Johnny. Let's talk, Johnny, let's talk without games.” 

The Boy's head jolted. His curly hair swung loose, wet and cool, slicking the back of Toecutter's fingers. “Just...talk? Not...not like...”

“Not like Gar talked with me,” Toecutter assured him. “Tell me, Johnny. How did this start?”

With full lips trembling, The Boy looked at Toecutter. “Gar came visiting, whenever Zano was out. He'd come by high, he'd talk about using. I'd catch him snorting. He offered me a hit and, man, then...”

“You wanted more, Johnny?” Toecutter rubbed the smooth, hard thighs, moving in long, stimulating passes. 

“I did. I did. And then he wanted... I never wanted... Zano couldn't know I was using, so I wanted Gar to go. I wanted him...gone.” 

The Boy looked at the black-soaked flooring. In a witching-hour illusion, the white heap of Gar's body floated above the dark. The man's head had rolled into the shadows. The stumps of his neck and wrist continued to weep blood, glimmering. Johnny's lips opened and he pressed his palm to them, swallowing.

“Johnny, go on.”

The Boy gagged. “I said I wanted us to go away, but we'd need dosh. I told him to take the gold, and I'd follow. I was going to tip Zano off. But Gar, that skag, he lost it when Zano and Marmi fought. He told me he was going to fix Zano for us... Ah, man, I never thought... Don't kill me now. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Let me tell Zano: I'm sorry.”

“Hell, Johnny.” Toecutter curved his lips in dry humor, shaking his head. “You're a fool, and a junkie, and you were a whore for that skag. You won't fix that with words.” 

The Boy shut his eyes and they leaked, washing his high cheekbones and Toecutter's bloody fingers. Pink and rusty drops ran through the hair on the bush ranger's forearms. 

“Stop that,” Toecutter growled, and dug into The Boy's face. Groaning, The Boy opened his eyes and blinked. 

“I should have told Zano.” Johnny said. “I know.”

“You should have killed Gar sooner,” Toecutter laughed. “You know that now, don't you? You should have fought at first, and fought at last. You should have fought for your life, Johnny, and for more than that.”

“More...” Johnny wondered.

“Freedom, Johnny. You take it by force. You keep it by force.” Toecutter brought his right hand to his mouth and licked the pink tears. He smiled. He set his palm on The Boy's ab-muscles and stroked down to the soft, damp hair.

“Johnny. It's not too late. You want freedom, don't you? You know there's no life without it.”

“Not too late! Toecutter, you'll help me, you'll tell Zano not to...”

“No! I told you, words can't fix this! You'll do as I say, and you'll fix this by force.” 

“By force?” 

“By force, we're getting Zano back. You're going to help, Johnny. You're going to ride with us, and we'll take back the Night Rider.”

Johnny stared, the whites of his lovely eyes blooming.

Toecutter laughed. “It's your choice. I won't buy you, Johnny. I won't pay for anything you offer, because you have a debt, Johnny. Until the debt is satisfied, you'll do as I say. Until I'm satisfied. Is that a deal?”

Johnny clenched his jaw. “Toecutter, I won't-”

“I said you'll offer. And you will, Johnny.”

The Boy's dark eyes fixed on him. In those eyes, Toecutter saw the Johnny he'd known before the Safe Zones had sickened The Boy. So young and fierce and desirous.

“I remember that you offered once before, Johnny,” He growled. “I should have... Johnny, I was...”

He leaned forward and placed his mouth on the pink lips. They opened, and he tongue-fucked The Boy slowly, pushing into the wet, hot suction as Johnny responded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnny is a huge challenge for Toecutter, I think. I'm sorry, and so is Toecutter, that The Boy does not cooperate. It's not his nature, yet.
> 
> If it's any consolation, Bubba is more disappointed by the non-events of this chapter than any of you. He had his own hopes.
> 
> I think of TC and Johnny as an abusive dynamic. But I can't write Johnny just jumping into such a dark relationship. Johnny has to come from someplace bad, to get where he's going. TC, in my mind, can't be The Boy's first fucked-up affair. What is point A, when point B is a man penetrating you with a shotgun barrel, and then you lean on him for support and forgiveness? Point A must be a very dark hole. But even in the movie, Johnny still has some fight in him. I think it must have been very strong at one point. Then TC starts to break him down.
> 
> When I was a kid, I used to fantasize that I'd rescue Johnny the Boy and he'd be very grateful. Very very. Now I get that Johnny wouldn't have wanted a rescue. He confuses violence with strength, and he wants to be with a strong man, and learn to be strong. He must have been partly broken to do that.
> 
>  
> 
> Edit: Now I think I drove most of you away. Don't be afraid to comment if you have criticism. Especially I'd like to know if you feel the characters are way off, and why. If it's too much, I want to know that, too.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Acolytes are attentive hosts; they're too kind.

Time was smooth as a road in the station house, and the Acolytes rode fast. They burst into the rally circle, slapping hands on backs, and swapping shot-glasses for joints. Montazano was pulling men to his side, and Toecutter was shifted away. As men pushed into the ring, others swung out and mixed in smaller groups. And everywhere, the Acolytes were saying the things that Toecutter had thought, and they told of living the life he wanted. 

In the Night Rider's circle, Toecutter heard of long runs in the Forbidden and Safe Zones. Most of the men were road captains, who had stationed their packs and raced in for the rally. The country, in the form of dust, was creased into their faces. Their lips carried a film of the places they recalled: the stifled towns in the borderlands, the fouled-water mines in the hills, the oil rigs fuming over the fault-lines, the hot flanks of the ocean, and the storm-torn coastal woods. 

They were recounting a war for that land, a roving deadlock. Men spoke of communities seduced with goods, and subdued with brutality. They described running one kilometer, half a minute, behind the Bronze, or ahead of them. And they reported on the roads they'd marked with rubber, paint, and heaps of torn metal. 

The theme of violence was exhilarating. Toecutter was not a man who could be still in his excitement. He leaped up and roamed, making his path easy to mark. In a dangerous room, a clever man brought respect and confidence, and made sure he was seen. Some of the Acolytes nodded to him, and he joined them. 

Bubba was also seeking connections, but he was taciturn, and he parted from the groups quickly. Trying to anchor him, Toecutter stepped into the same circles as his mate. Soon he noticed how often they were joined by four men: the members of the assault teams. 

The four Acolytes were laughing, and touching the bush rangers, and passing them glasses and joints. Yet there was a sly line in Mudgut's shoulders, a surly set to Starbuck's eyes, and a coolness in the posture of tall Cundalini. Only Diabando showed them warmth and welcome. Toecutter remembered that the blond man hadn't abused Bubba at the gate.

Zanetti moved briskly, breaking out of circles as soon as his stalkers arrived. This forced Toecutter to chase him, making five pursuers, and one quarry. Toecutter chuffed at his mate as he caught him by the shoulder. Then he turned, and forced Bubba to follow him. 

“Our new mates,” Bubba whispered as they walked, “Our absence would not make their hearts any fonder, but they'll never let us part from them.”

“”I know, Bubba.” Toecutter smiled calmly, watching as Diabando sauntered toward them. “They must have orders to watch us... We can't evade. So we'll engage. Don't scowl like that...if the wind changes, I'll have to look at that scowl forever. And I'm tired of it now.” 

Bubba smoothed his face and nodded to Diabando. The blond bikie was not a good shadow. His mates called out to him, and he could not pass them without a laugh, a quick word, and a toke. When he saw Zanetti look at him, he came bounding, smiling, his wavy hair bouncing in his eyes.

“How was that?” Bubba muttered.

“Good man,” Toecutter said. He put warmth into his eyes, and Diabando waved a bottle at him, tossing a shot glass into his hand. 

“Man, I can't let you boys stand here dry,” the blond shouted. Soon, he was cheerfully telling the story of his bronze patch. 

“We couldn't be so lucky!” Diabando was saying, flaring his eyes in wonder, his blond hair shaking over his brows. “So we all had a look with the binoculars, and sure, yeah, there's a stinger bike behind the barn. Well, we couldn't ride up, so we left our bikes and we walked! Yeah, we walked, five hundred meters, and it's hot as hell, and we're saying, 'we couldn't be so lucky,' he'll be gone before we get there.”

Toecutter nodded, as Starbuck and Cundalini moved in, and leaned on Diabando's shoulders.

“When we're at the barn, the bike's still there, so we run to the house, flat up to it, and start peeping windows. And he's there, rooting the farmer's wife! Well, he hasn't got his gun belt on, and Mudguts says, 'could we take him alive?” Then he says, we all say, 'we couldn't be so lucky!'” But there's a window in the attic, one of those round ones, and it's open. It's fucking open.

“So up Mudguts goes. It's clapboard, and a tin roof...we're half-sure it's the end of him, but he makes it. Once he climbs in, we say, 'that's fine, but we couldn't be so lucky! That cunt will have his gun, by the time we're in.' So we're at the back door when it opens, and I've got my ax up. Mudguts is there!”

“We creep through the house, and we run in the room, screaming like we're devils. He's still rooting the bird! We drag him off the bed, and Zano's got his badge, and pins it right to his face! Well, that was a laugh, but Mudguts can do better, he says, and he sticks it in that bastard's donger! I did an eye, myself! Finally, we got the badge pinned all proper to his chest.”

Toecutter was laughing, when Mudguts slunk behind him, pressed into his back, grabbed his hips, and pushed him to the left. The small Acolyte pounced into the circle. At his side was the big man, Clunk, heavy as a pillar of mud. He flowed slowly to Toecutter's shoulder, and pointed at his bandaged bicep.

“A pistol wound, minimal cavitation?” Clunk slurred.

“Let him have a look. He's our surgeon.” Mudguts said. “Used to be top man at St. Georges hospital. Now you can't teach him a new trick, but he knows all his old ones.”

“.22 caliber. The woman had it.” Toecutter smiled. “Bubba cleaned it and bound it... and I took her trigger fingers.”

He opened his shirt and the buckles on his body armor. With the Acolytes watching, he pulled himself out of the gear without Zanetti's help. Bubba took the armor, and Clunk lifted Toecutter's limb as he stripped the bandage off. Something like pink milk slipped out of the sunken wound. Clunk pressed on the red skin, frowning.

“Infection secondary to penetrating trauma. Abscess. Flush twice daily, with sterile saline.”

“Flush?” Bubba asked.

“Force fluid into the wound and allow to drain.” 

“Thank-you.” Toecutter spoke with as much volume as he could, though the timbre was thin. He let Zanetti hold his armor, and waited a moment before he tugged his shirt on. 

“You're all road mates?” Toecutter asked.

“We're Zano's road mates.” Mudguts pushed his chin up, a haughty look. “We rode in with him for the rally. When he's not on a night run, he captains our pack. Twopots is his second.”

Mudguts gestured at a brawny Acolyte, laughing in the Night Rider's company. “If he and Zano both have business, then I keep the boys in line!”

Diabando hooted. “Meaning that he finds the liquor, fanny, and arse. And tells us what to smash and what to burn.” 

Mudguts slapped the blond's chest with the back of his hand. “Important work! That's how we keep the coasties on notice! We run the roads into the Safe Zones, and we let them know what a small pack of us can do. We remind them: they don't want to piss us off. They don't want the full force of the Armalites to come for them.”

Cundalini nodded. “And it has worked...up until now.”

“All this fuss over yellow cake!” Mudguts laughed. “I'd rather have an ice lolly.”

Toecutter mused, “Psychological warfare...”

“Terrorism!” Mudguts snickered. “We're terrorists, so say the pollies!”

He nudged Diabando. The blond poured a round of shots, sloshing the glasses full. 

“A toast to terrorism,” Cundalini yelled. He put a hand on one hip, as he tucked his glass under his mustache. The Night Rider roared, and the Acolytes held glasses and bottles high. Toecutter shoved his wounded arm into his shirt, and sucked the bourbon into his throat, hard and fast.

Mudguts was laughing and swapping his rifle for Bubba's pistol. He ran his hands over Zanetti's hips when he took the Mauser. Making a ring with his fingers, he pumped them up and down the rounded handle. “That's a nice, thick bit of wood you've got.”

Bubba made no comment on the quip. His eyes worked on the rifle, noting all the mods. Soon he had cataloged them, and he handed the M-16 back to the Acolyte. Mudguts slung the rifle on his shoulder. Lingering on the C96, he stroked at the box magazine. Turning the pistol, he saw the red number impressed into the handle.

“The 9, that's for nine mm?” he asked. His thumb rubbed the marking.

Bubba nodded. “Prepare for war.”

Mudguts laughed, “I'll do that.”

The Acolyte offered the gun to Zanetti, who took it so fast that Mudguts said “Hey!”

Bubba slid his hand to the small of his back, nesting the Mauser in its rig. Then he turned to Toecutter and showed him a softer mouth, for one moment. 

Mudguts shook his scruff of brown hair. “The Acolytes are prepared, you know! Tonight was our war rally. Now... Now, we rally for Zano's run.”

Toecutter was buttoning his shirt with one hand. “Our run.”

The Acolyte tilted his fine-boned face, and widened his dark eyes. “But you had no hope, boys. This will be Zano's run. The Night Rider, he'll get your package past the Bronze. Though he may lose you on the way.”

Toecutter shifted his eyes languidly. He heard a small, high growl, and looked coolly back at the Acolyte. 

“You don't know the Bronze. They drive to crush you. You have to control the distance...and face them! Come back at them! Zano knows which way they'll cut the wheel, so follow him.”

“He knows? How?”

“He's the Night Rider. The way he comes at them, he takes hold of the dogs' minds.”

Toecutter nodded. Tossing more bourbon into his mouth, rolling it with his tongue, he swallowed with a sigh. “The Night Rider...hammers the Bronze. Smashes the Breaker Squads. That's why we set up camp here. The Bronze won't run close to him.”

“You set up here because we let you. We liked the look of you.” Mudguts pointed his strong nose up. He stepped onto a chair, and then up onto the backrest. He tilted the seat on two legs and managed a pose. “And now Zano and the captains have taken a good look at you... Time for you boys to find your bunks. We'll show you the way.”

Mudguts rocked the chair back onto four legs. As he hopped down, Cundalini lowered him by his hips. The boy slipped his hands onto the tall man's shoulders and laughed happily. 

“Stache pash!” he demanded. He stood on his toes and kissed Cundalini with a wide-open mouth, his lips pulling and flowing, taking in most of the man's mustache. He ended the kiss with a lap of his tongue. 

“Now?” Diabando laughed, “It can't be bedtime... look at me, I'm still walking.”

“Zano's giving orders soon. They're not for the ears of rank and file- and ferals.” 

Toecutter took the epithet coolly, with some pride. Before the run to the station house, he'd stitched a possum-skin onto his jacket shoulders. He did look savage, with a hairy ruff to match his cold eyes. He laughed; he was content to go. 

He followed Diabando, strolling onto the dark porch. Starbuck was standing at the rail. There Toecutter stopped and hissed. He saw no motorcycles in the yard, only the spires and stacks of melee trophies. Cundalini put a hand on his shoulder and laughed. “Mudguts isn't only a pervert. He's a pickpocket. Your bikes are in the barn, and your keys are in the bunkhouse.”

Toecutter grunted. He felt the cold of Bubba's anger, and the boy's support cooled him. They breathed together to calm themselves, and moved into the black space under the sharp stars. Toecutter found the moon, while his satellite boy, as pale and thin, stood by his right shoulder. 

The Acolytes moved past them, laughing and passing the bottle. Starbuck had separated from his mates again. He waited behind the bush rangers, and then he followed them. Bubba moved in silence, listening for a pause in Starbuck's step. The Acolyte made sure his footfalls were crisp and firm. Regarding gunmen, Toecutter thought: even their smallest moves are an exchange. 

They walked into bushland blackness, until a door opened. Light wriggled over a few meters of dirt, and along the front of the bunkhouse. Toecutter sprinted as he saw the door falling shut. He caught the edge, and when he turned back, his pupils had cinched into pinholes, and Starbuck had sunk into the blackness. Bubba had stopped, trying to pinpoint the man by sound. 

“Come on,” Toecutter ordered, and Zanetti moved into the dull, quivering glow. They entered the bunkhouse, a long room with a gritty floor and cobwebbed walls. In the back, the building was packed with a dusty darkness. A line of sodium lamps hung in rusted cages, under a flat ceiling where flies crawled and bobbed. Lanterns were hooked along the wall, because the light bulbs were dead: empty, gray, and glistening, like cicada husks. 

The bunks were bare, hard shelves raised on metal posts. Some were padded with swag rolls, and warmed by the road captains' women. They were lovely: young and hard-eyed, with made-up faces. The red and pink of soft lips was vivid, and looked slick and hungry. Toecutter wanted to smear the colors with his tongue and mouth. He felt entrapped, while the women stared past him. They moved only to swipe at flies, and fit the ends of rollies into their painted mouths.

Toecutter remembered women in the Safe Zones, now five years into his past. They looked. They touched you. They spoke to you. There was one who had matched him line for line when he quoted plays. Nothing had come with him to the wasteland....certainly not the souls of women. He moved on, following the Acolytes toward the darkness.

Near the last lantern, the men stopped. Mudguts swung onto an upper bunk and lay on his belly, hanging his upper body into the space below. When the Acolyte swung down, he startled a youth sitting in the bunk: a boyish man, with big eyes; he looked worried, and soft. His lean, brown body and full mouth marked him as part aboriginal. He wore a torn, too-large shirt, and his jeans were small on him. He had cut slits up the sides of the legs and patched in canvas. 

A second youth lay behind him in the back of the bunk. He wore a black leather jacket, and new jeans. Taking no notice of Mudguts, the man continued smoking a durrie, staring into the gray smoke. He was tall, with a shadow of beard on a fine-boned face, and a muscular body. His blond hair was only a shade darker than Bubba's bleached hair. Zanetti was staring, a hint of anger on his face.

“Evening boys,” Diabando said, leaning in next to Mudguts. “What a night! Grayson's first root!”

The brown-skinned man gave the bikie a meek glance, before he bowed his head. 

Mudguts laughed. “Kind of looks like he wants to run...such a damn sook. Grayson, how are you still alive? Every time we ride in, I expect to find you dead. Or gone feral.”

“Too soft for the ferals.” Diabando declared. “Ferals eat the sooks. Slit their throats, hang them up to bleed out, and roast them.”

“I hope you're a good fuck, Grayson. If Horner isn't happy, maybe he'll give you to a feral.”

“Stop being so scared. Makes it hurt worse.” Diabando said.

“Poor sooky bastard," Mudguts spoke sadly, "I don't know how I'm gonna sleep with all the crying...maybe I'll ask Horner to gag you.”

The blond youth pulled the cigarette from his lips. “Let him be. He's not your salvage.”

“Not touching him, am I?” Mudguts hissed. “And look at you, all dressed up like a real man. You should be in your salvage rags, boy.”

The young man frowned. “What's that mean?”

“Zano hasn't said a word to Twopots yet, and when he does...it could still be 'no.'”

“Like hell.” The blond's teeth flashed, a snap at the air. “I'm a good shot, I'm a good rider, and I protect this house when you're on the roads. I'm making probie this year, and you know it.”

“Oh, I hope you do, mister. I can't touch a brother's salvage. But I can touch a brother. I can teach him respect when an officer says so. And Twopots knows you lack respect. Telling me to let that sook be? That's out of line, boy. Salvage boy.”

The blond looked down. “Sorry.”

“Now tell Grayson he's a sooky, weak cunt.”

“Grayson, you're a sooky, weak cunt.”

“Tell him he's going to bleed.”

“Grayson...you're gonna bleed.”

“Tell him you're going to laugh when he screams.”

“I'm gonna laugh. When you scream.”

Diabando and Cundalini were chuckling. Mudguts flipped off the top bunk, landing in front of the timid youth. He patted him on his head. “Have a lovely night, Grayson.”

Mudguts grabbed Cundalini's right hand and skipped off beside him. They moved to a bunk in the last husk of lantern light, and lay on the bed, kissing and whispering. Diabando followed and stood watching. 

Toecutter stood, looking down at Grayson and his mate. The boy truly was a damn sook; it was a wonder he was surviving here. And just twenty meters away, in the station house, was Johnny. There was fire in that boy, and wet ash in this one. Toecutter turned coolly, and walked past the bunk of now-naked Acolytes.

Bubba stalked so swiftly down the aisle, he pulled ahead of Toecutter. He pushed into the darkness with tense shoulders, as though he would not stop. Yet he did, when a match popped into flame, at the far end of the bunkhouse. The sharp glow touched a rollie, and glowed over a bearded face. Bubba stared at Starbuck, and at the door behind him. 

“Bubba,” Toecutter said softly. “You can't, you won't, come here.”

Bubba hung his silvery head. He was so hard with anger that his slender body seemed burly under Toecutter's hands. The older bush ranger pulled his mate into a shadowed alcove, and softly touched his tight jaw. 

“I know I can't.” Zanetti growled. “I've failed.”

“What? No.” Toecutter brushed the tense shoulders, and then gripped them hard. He moved to kiss his mate, and Bubba shook his head.

“Look.” Zanetti demanded coldly. He swept his Mauser out and pulled the slide back, as though he would remove a round. However, the chamber was empty. “Seventy five grams. I never noticed when that weight was lifted from me.” 

Toecutter cupped Bubba's hands and the gun. “How could you have?”

“It's the one thing I never drilled for. I never thought...”

“You couldn't have. Bubba.”

“One thousand, three hundred and twenty-five grams. That I should have noticed. His strange hands on me! ...And he lifted one thousand, three hundred, and twenty-five grams from my rig. Replaced it with another gun. Later, he switched it back. And I let him... I noticed nothing but his filthy hands on my skin. Cut his hands off. I'll watch you work! This time I want to watch...”

“Bubba!” Toecutter hissed and seized the boy's scowling face. Bubba stopped shaking. He returned the Mauser to his rig, and stepped close to Toecutter. 

Toecutter kissed him and whispered, “I know, Bubba, I know. But we can't go. They'd follow.”

“We can fight.”

“A hundred Acolytes? The Night Rider himself? And then five hundred Armalites?”

“I want us to go home.”

“Where we were never safe. Never. Two ferals in a bushland full of other ferals. And they may as well be cannibals. Bubba, you're not the first partner I've had. Am I the first partner you've had? Are you tired yet of digging graves? Two is not a good number, is it, Bubba?”

“Two is one...” Bubba whispered.

“In the end, it is...so this could be good for us. Yes, they've press-ganged us. Yes, they think we'll die during the run. We won't, though. They don't know us, and don't respect us...but we'll teach them. Someday, I promise you, that little cunt will be scared to anger me. Scared to touch you.” Toecutter laughed. “You'll forgive him, then.”

“Never forgetting, though.” Bubba growled. “You...like him. You like them all.”

“Ahh, Bubba.” Toecutter chuckled. “You should try liking more people.”

“I try.” Bubba said, and Toecutter laughed. He motioned to a shadowed bunk, where someone had unfurled both their swag rolls.

“Bubba, strip down,” he ordered.

Zanetti stood silent in the dark. 

“I need you.” This line worked. It was the hook in Zanneti's soul.

He saw the darker shadow move to the bunk, and vanish in the black. He heard the sounds Bubba made: neat and soft, as he shed his boots, pants, shirt, and jacket. There was a thump, as Zanetti put his folded clothing on the floor. There was a slither, as he lay back. Toecutter walked to the bunk, tossing his clothing down. 

He stood and listened to Bubba lube and finger his hole. When the thrusting became rapid, Toecutter climbed into the bunk. He found Bubba's arse and pulled the man's hand away. Zanetti hooked his shoulders, pulled him down, and they kissed. 

Toecutter pushed himself back, and began to work Bubba's arse. With two fingers, he slid upward to find the firm gland, pressing the curve of it. He wanted to move more, but the rim muscles held him tightly. Still, Bubba began to moan. 

Toecutter rubbed into him, and kissed his balls. He brushed his face along the young man's cock. The hot surface shifted, and under that velvet, Bubba was so hard. His mate touched the smooth, dry glans with his lips. Hot fluid suddenly welled out, and he licked. He chuckled, blowing humid air on the hole, and slid his mouth onto the cock.

Sucking strongly, Toecutter bobbed his head. Zanetti tugged his hair, and pulled up and down. The boy's shaft jumped, and tangy fluid collected in Toecutter's mouth. He responded by pushing gently at the gland, forcing more liquid onto his tongue. His fingers slid up the firm lump, and down, and up. He worked to make Bubba sound undone, moaning. 

The man's hips began to rock, and Toecutter worried he might press too hard now. He pulled his fingers out, and took his mouth off Bubba's cock, letting it slap onto his belly. He gave Zanetti his cock, sliding it into the heat and pressure.

They fucked quietly in the dark, Bubba huffing, and Toecutter hissing. Zanetti hooked a hand behind his top's left thigh, and set the rhythm. Toecutter came hard, growling into Zanetti's soft hair, and then jacked Bubba, rubbing the gland with the tips of two fingers. 

“I'll come, I'll come.” Bubba gasped. “Ahh. Should I come?”

“Yes. Come.” 

Bubba shot a sloppy spurt onto Toecutter's belly, and they lay on the bunk, cooling. 

“That's good, Bubba.” Toecutter whispered. “You're good; we're good. We're strong. Together. We're going to make our names. Soon now. Together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ended up so long. The "past" chapters are very difficult. The "current time" chapters are so easy. I can write the characters as familiar, and therefore, they don't have to interact so much.
> 
> So many damn Acolytes, and I even threw in some OC's. Like it wasn't hard enough.
> 
> Obviously Mudguts will get the most time, because he never shuts up or stops moving. That's Bubba's nightmare. So I had him mess with Zanetti. Mudguts is always smelling blood in the water...
> 
> I wanted to give Diabando some credit. He has a lot of mates, and never has friction with anyone; look at his interactions in the movie. I think he's a center-link in the gang. Even the loner, Starbuck, works well with him. 
> 
> Diabando's so cheerful, too. And great with kids. That tower of bricks he built for Sprog, can you imagine any other member of the gang doing that? So, he's a bit rapey with teenage boys. Well, very rapey. Well, a straight-up rapist. We all have flaws, don't we? Regardless, I think he's the 'nice' one. 
> 
> Also funny. He waves to the Lair in the rear-view mirror, as the gang chases the chevy- that looks mockingly flirtatious, and cracks me up. While stalking Jesse, he eats a bannana off his knife- because one phallic symbol is not enough. She needs two, you know, to really appreciate how thoroughly he intends to wreck her. And when Mudguts is in a total killing frenzy, Diabando is still laughing and playing. Hilarious guy! Under-appreciated.
> 
> I can't stop writing Bubba as the world's most aggressive bottom. Maybe because I think they're the best lovers, and TC would have the best. Maybe because Bubba is a focused man? And he wants to possess TC, and take him completely in? Like he's saying: don't look away, and don't stop for one moment; don't stop wanting me. 
> 
> Again, the Wasteland needs a therapist; somebody write a crack AU and get these boys some help, especially Bubba. Jealousy and insecurity and type-A, work/career obsession. Such issues lead to an early death. 
> 
> I'll say it here: Bubba did know what he was doing. It was suicide by cop. And if he survived, he'd never admit it, but he'd know it. He couldn't run out on TC, but he couldn't stay with him, watching him favor Johnny. There are things other than the Bronze that take your pride. So when things just fell into place...when he suddenly saw an end to it...right here, now...I think for once he let go of self-control and gave himself to that terrible moment.
> 
> That's what I'm writing towards. That's why my Bubba is so intense in bed (and out of it too). 
> 
> And Magicmushroom, you're right, the "current time" passages should take place in an AU eighties. That will be settled by small things in future chapters. If you notice anachronisms, just let me know!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've a pattern here; I take forever on some chapters, and then I follow too swiftly with a successor! If you have not read Chapter 8, go there now. Don't tell me this isn't what you want. It's a requirement.
> 
> There's implied underage in this chapter. Unhealthy relationships have unhealthy beginnings.
> 
> Also, is this blood play? Well, it is for TC.

Toecutter kissed The Boy for a long time, sucking and probing Johnny's mouth. He had to move back, wiping his mouth, and looking out the window. His cock thumped at his belly; his shaft was heavy with his blood. His wide glans was rosy, and gleaming with fluid. When he shut his eyes, that darkness coruscated with his lust.

There was Gar shuddering in pain, and issuing his hot blood. He saw The Boy, fighting nude in the verve of terror. Where Johnny's fists had thumped him, Toecutter was hot and pulsing. He played with the sore flesh, touching it firmly, and thought of how fear and fury widened The Boy's eyes. 

Finally, he decided to look at The Boy fully. It was time. Even in the hazy glow, Toecutter discerned the scar. With one finger, he followed the long, pale gouge on Johnny's right thigh. The soft tissue used to have a red gloss, when it was febrile, new and lucent. Once, Johnny had called it ugly. He'd tried to cover, hiding in his robe, when Toecutter wanted to look and touch. 

In that urgency, Toecutter had seized The Boy's jaw and pushed him flat on his back. He'd snarled 'men have scars, Johnny. Would I do this, if yours was ugly?' Kissing and then licking, he had felt The Boy relax. The scar was hot and soft, and Johnny had gasped as Toecutter lapped his thigh. When he'd looked, Johnny was wide-eyed and red-faced, and holding his cock shyly. 

Then Toecutter had transgressed. Zano could have killed him for what he had done. So he would not judge The Boy, though he should. Johnny was not the only one who had betrayed the Night Rider. And The Boy had never told. Now Toecutter touched the scar and remembered how it had served as an opening.

“I'm sorry.” Johnny crooned. “Let me...come with me, I want to...”

Johnny pulled, and Toecutter stood. They moved past the small lamp, and The Boy's muscles shone and flexed. He was marked with red scuffs on his neck and chest. His eyes glowed, and his full-lipped mouth looked too fuckable. Toecutter slapped him, forcing a flush into the tan face. 

“Hey!” Johnny gasped. “Don't!”

Toecutter struck with the same hand. This time, Johnny blocked him. Toecutter smiled and awarded him a low, fond chuckle. 

Johnny gazed thoughtfully at Toecutter. He pulled the man into the small ensuite. On the counter, The Boy had his full grooming kit: his folding razor and strop and bowl and lathering soap. There was a heap of white face-cloths. They were snowy and pure and starched. Toecutter laughed at the scene.

“Johnny.” He shook his head. “Oh, Johnny.”

The Boy opened the hot-water tap. “Look, the tub doesn't run water. I need the towels. And I'm going to take one with me...they're handy.”

“Stain it now. There's nothing clean in the zone.” 

Johnny moved tentatively and wiped Toecutter's nose and jaw, and then his neck. He rubbed gently at the dry blood. As he did, Toecutter cupped Johnny's balls and thumbed them. Johnny's eyes widened at the red fingers. None the less, he stood for Toecutter's gentle touch, and carefully pressed the cloth over the man's shoulders. He rinsed it, and clots as dark as a sour wine's sediment coated the sink bowl. 

By the moment, The Boy was less concerned. He scrubbed Toecutter's left arm, and wiped his fingers and palm. Then he turned to the right arm, and stroked down to the hand working his balls. Toecutter offered the hand for cleaning. When it shone, damp and bare, Johnny nudged his hard cock into the palm. Toecutter made a fist, pumping lightly. 

The Boy took a new cloth to wipe his own balls. That put a gleam in Toecutter's eyes, and a gentle curve on his mouth. He relaxed under the warm, stimulating press of the cloth on his chest. His belly. His thighs. He gripped The Boy's wrist.

“No, Johnny.”

“No?” The boy blinked. “No? Toecutter, I want to-”

“Johnny. You wanted to kill Gar tonight. And his death, you brought it on him.” 

“No, that was you, I-”

“Johnny.” Toecutter sighed, his eyes shut. He cracked them to glare at a sulky face. The thumping in his cock made a torment of The Boy's slithering. In his strong hand, Toecutter clenched The Boy's long, lovely cock. 

“Ah!” Johnny swallowed and flung the wet towel down. It tumbled along Toecutter's leg and he kicked it off his foot.

“Johnny. When a boy goes hunting, and takes an animal, his first animal, there's a rite, Johnny. It's called blooding.” 

“Ah, fuck no!” 

“Press your face on my cock, Johnny.” He let go of The Boy's hot, softening shaft. He drove his fingers into the thick curls, twisting a handful, and forced Johnny down. “Both cheeks. Good. So handsome, Johnny. My blooded Boy.” 

Johnny rose, smeared darkly under his smooth, high cheekbones. Zygomatic bones, the strong struts of a fragile face. Toecutter's thoughts swelled and snapped, words on a pennant. He was all heat and urge, his pelvis rocking as Johnny rose. 

There wasn't time for The Boy to wash him, so he held the lean hips, and pulled the hot flesh to his body. He drove his hard cock over the ridged muscle on Johnny's belly. That pressed slickness out of his shaft, and he slid in the oily heat. His balls jerked, and his long spurt began. He kissed and licked The Boy's face; he couldn't help it; he couldn't spare the blooding marks, though he wanted to look at them forever.

“Oh Johnny.” He groaned. 

“Toecutter!” Johnny began to pump his own cock. The bush ranger knelt and opened his mouth. He used one hand to hold the base of Johnny's rod. He let The Boy fuck his mouth as he had meant to fuck The Boy's mouth. He caressed the cool, hard curves of Johnny's arse while the boy rocked his hips. The full muscles, softening and tightening, were so young, so strong, and His Boy made him proud. 

The tangy slickness in Toecutter's mouth changed to salty, and sloppy. Johnny groaned his name. Toecutter pulled back to the head of The Boy's softening cock and slid off. Standing, he pressed his shut lips to a dark nipple. He opened his mouth carefully to tongue and slosh at the nubbin. Finally, he slopped The Boy's cum down his pec, ribs, and belly. It covered and revived Toecutter's cold spurt.

“Ahhh.” The Boy was moaning, stirring his fingers in the warm cum and saliva. “Ah. I should have found you. I should have gone to you, found you. You should have taken me with you. I hate you. I wish I had followed you.”

“I wish I had come on your face.” The Toecutter said, forgetting to swallow his honest words.

“Oh, yeah.” The Boy moaned. “I know.”

Toecutter laughed softly. “Wash up, Johnny.”

He corrected The Boy, “No, first me.”

Johnny nodded and lowered himself. He sat on his hip, with his long, firm legs to the side. Powerful muscles fought the scar, and the thigh jumped and then rested. 

The Boy worked on Toecutter adoringly. The hot cloth pressed and tugged at his ebbing fullness, and engulfed his balls in soothing moisture. Johnny wiped down his shins. He took a new cloth for each foot. He had to wipe both tops and soles, and he complained.

“There's so much. It's sticky. Running out of towels.”

“Why not use your hair?”

“What?” The boy frowned, brushing fingers into his dark hair, which was drying and re-curling. “Why would I do that?”

“Johnny.” Toecutter chuckled, and yawned. The Boy yawned, too. “You don't remember Luke?”

“Who's he?”

“It's a book. In the new testament.”

“Oh, the bible.” The Boy laughed knowingly as he wiped his own body. “Never had one. I've had a few comics. Mostly Japanese. Hentai, you know.”

“No, I don't.” Toecutter helped Johnny up and they kissed, companionably. 

“A nap.” The Boy suggested.

“No, we've been hours. We're riding.” 

They pissed together in the stained toilet, and Toecutter jetted his urine over the seat and onto the floor. Johnny, doing the same, laughed in his lovely, tenor voice. Toecutter stroked The Boy's back and arse fondly. He shook off first, strode into the bedroom, and began dressing. Johnny stayed in the ensuite, whistling. He emerged with his shaving kit, rolled in a leather packet, and a single, white face cloth.

“I don't have a swag anymore.” The Boy worried.

“Take Zano's. We'll get you your own soon.” Toecutter grabbed the white towel and tossed it on Gar's blood. 

“Hey, Toecutter! Man...” 

“Mudguts and Cundalini would have made you eat it.”

“Oh. Sure. Or taken a shit on it.”

Toecutter arched his brows and waited; in a moment, they both laughed. 

“Right.” The Boy affirmed. “You don't have to say it.”

His beautiful eyes slid to the bedside table, and his fingers kneaded the leather packet in his hands. “Toecutter...”

The bikie pointed to the heap of clothing by the bed. “Get dressed, Johnny.”

“That's Gar's.” Johnny sneered. He climbed over the bed, opening a door to the right. The Boy's clothing hung winsomely on wooden hangers. He pulled on a soft, black shirt. Then he slipped into a leather jacket, and took buff-colored pants to the bed, where he patiently tugged the tight fit into place. Finally, he returned to the closet for his boots, and Zano's swag, and a white scarf. 

Toecutter sighed. All the fussing. He had a second Bubba, now. That reminded him; he pulled the band out of his hair, and the top-knot collapsed into his blond and brown mane. 

“Better.” Johnny commented. 

“Bubba.” Toecutter murmured.

“What?”

“Bubba. The top-knot; that's his idea. He says the bleached hair is porous and will stain. And that blood is the worst. He's right, I'm sure. He generally is. And I won't sit for the dye more often than necessary. He takes hours with it.” Toecutter stopped. It was odd. Suddenly, Zanneti was every shadow in the dark. He had to will himself not to look for the slim body, so formally posed and tense.

Toecutter stood by the bed, counting the pills, and assessing the powder. He dabbed a sample of both packets onto his tongue. The crystals soaked bitterly into his mouth, and no numbness relieved him. Johnny hadn't lied. He suspected the china white was highly pure. It was good gear. “Gar wouldn't have known?”

“Oh, no. I cook, and shoot him up. He likes that. He did.” The Boy's tone was cool.

“And you do for yourself?”

“I don't use a rig yet. I snort. Hey...” The Boy prowled over the bed, shoulders low, arse high, smiling. “Look, Toecutter, that's mine, but I'll give you a share. Let me slice for you--” 

Toecutter backhanded him, and Johnny curled on the bed, cupping his jaw. His big eyes stared, glimmering, at the man. “Oh.”

“What do you need for tonight and tomorrow? Need, Johnny. Need.”

He counted out pills with The Boy, and fixed him a small twist of the brown powder, and a short line. 

When Toecutter opened the door, Diabando looked at him concernedly. The blond thug stepped into the room. He found Johnny, tossing his head back and sniffing as he sat on the bed. Diabando relaxed, smiled, and waved.

“Good to see you, Johnny The Boy.”

“Hey, don't call me that.”

“Sure, Boy. Though it fits even better now.”

“Oh, belt up, Bandy.” Johnny laughed softly, and ran his fingers slowly into his hair. He began to loll back onto the mattress. 

“Get him up.” Playful, Toecutter slapped his gloves on Diabando's shoulder. “Bring him down to the yard.”

“He's riding with you?” Diabando chuckled. “Maybe we'll make that Johnny The B-”

Toecutter spun and caught the blond's face. “He's riding Zano's bike for now.”

“Sure.” Diabando whispered. “Zano's bike.”

They walked into the yard, and Bubba found them. He came suddenly to Johnny's shoulder. Though he was stoned, The Boy jumped, and Zanetti glowered at the gaping mouth and wide eyes. He shifted his gaze to Toecutter.

“I brought a crematory in cans.”

“Fine, Bubba. Johnny will take them.”

They followed the white-blond hair into the darkness of the shed. Bubba handed two petrol cans to Johnny. Toecutter slid his hand over The Boy's back, onto his shoulder. He turned The Boy and walked him to the house. 

“You've lived here how long?”

“Four years now. I was alone in the city. I met Marmi at a jack-and-junk house. We got on, so she offered a room to me...honestly, Toecutter, she's good to me, and this- it's her house...and Zano, he... Zano stays with us...when he comes to Sun City. This is Zano's house, too.”

“The Night Rider knows that everything is lost. It all goes away, Johnny. If you stay with it, you're gone, too. Why let it fall down slowly? Burn it, Johnny. You have to make room for freedom.”

He pushed The Boy into the house. Johnny covered his lower face with the white scarf. The soft, woven cloth could not stop the fumes. The Boy coughed and wiped his eyes as he poured out the fuel. He rushed outside. His eyes continued to water.

Toecutter swung the carcass cleaver at a window, splitting the wood bars, so the glass shot into the house. Zanetti shoved a molotov at The Boy, who took it. Toecutter offered him a match. 

“No.” Johnny whispered, moving his white scarf to show a brass pendant. The Boy still had the lighter case, cast in the shape of a western boot. Toecutter rubbed Johnny's chest gently. He took the case in his hand, smiling. He'd thought Johnny would have lost his taste for this bogan style. Here it was, and five years had gone. The time was lost, but the gift was kept.

Toecutter let The Boy set fire to the bottle's rag. Then the bush ranger hurled the molotov into the house. Surtr's orange sword swung in the rooms. The incineration of Johnny's history cast a reviving warmth. The Boy stood in the sunny glow, his face golden and red, and his curls seemed to waver like vines. Now The Boy was striving for life, and Toecutter would be that life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What Johnny has done in this story, effectively conspiring to rob his brother, should have marked him for death. So of course there is a powerful hold that The Boy has on Toecutter. It goes well beyond lust. Toecutter tells himself he's good for Johnny but he knows he's hurt him. He tells himself he will build The Boy up, but he knows he's broken him down. And of course he's going to continue doing it. Abusers have to have stories; so do the abused. These patterns only break when the lies are confessed/confronted.
> 
> The ill-fated pendant was a gift. Johnny kept it because it was all he was left with in Sun City.
> 
> The bathroom scene. Toecutter caressing Johnny's back and thighs is right out of the movie, and one of my favorite moments. It is the weirdest portrayal. As Mudguts and Cundalini help Johnny wrangle the Girl from the chevy, Toecutter moves in. He rubs his thigh (I can't even) on The Boy's arse, and strokes his shoulders and down his back. When Johnny seems to have his victim in hand, TC steps back. So do Mudguts and Cundalini. With a proud and doting posture, TC puts his arm over Cundalini's shoulders. All three stand watching The Boy with this 'we done good' pose. Yeah, that kid's turning out swell. Good job, bikie dads! I suspect Bubba puked up a little in his helmet. Raping a woman passenger who's done nothing to you, it's chickenshit. 
> 
> SpookyHoodlum has started a Zanetti!! story, "Cold to the Touch," that is distinct from my portrayal. It's het! But try it! I liked it; there was TC tongue.
> 
> Here is catharsis: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R-_km-xssIA
> 
> Here is amusement: http://girlmeetsfreak.com/2013/07/29/movie-discussion-george-millers-mad-max-1979/
> 
> Here is perfection: https://marshottentot.wordpress.com/about/  
> (Scroll down)


End file.
